


Harbinger of Sacrifice

by nini28326



Series: Harbinger of Sacrifice [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elvhen Language, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fear, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Heartbreak, Love, Multi, Mute - Freeform, Mysterious origin, Pain, Polyamorous Character, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Qunlat (Dragon Age), Romance, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Tevene (Dragon Age), The Fade, The Veil (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nini28326/pseuds/nini28326
Summary: As rumors engulf the lands of Thedas, foretelling the destruction of the world at the hands of an ancient Elvhen god, the cruel violence against The People escalates. Hunted down by humans, they scatter to the four winds in hopes of surviving the apocalypse looming on the horizon and avoiding the pointy end of the world's retribution. But not all are so lucky. And for one, a death denied will be the cruelest form of retribution ever forced upon another.This is her story. The story of the Wolf, of his Sorrow, and of their Harbinger of Sacrifice.
Relationships: Abelas (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Abelas/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Abelas/Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Abelas/Solas (Dragon Age), Abelas/Solas (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Female Lavellan/Solas, Female Mage Lavellan & Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas, Mage Inquisitor/Solas, Solas & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Harbinger of Sacrifice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691398
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

_The darkness ebbs, flowing through unfiltered time, as consciousness lives only in an unreachable chasm of the unknown. Skin stretches and sizzles with the fiery pain of the hellish touch of a barely kept existence mired in uncertainty, as a form pulled tight by the weight of a world that seems so far away, sways gently. Untouchable, yet unrelenting in its ferocity, metal digs into wrists with the cruel desperation of a wanton creature somehow both allow and denied. The eyes that once saw the world for all that is, was and could be, shutter the image of its once beautiful visage with the mystery of what cannot be undone. Voice, once calm and as sweet as the sound of an early spring morning, now as silent as the dead. Memories, faded, do not dare to return. Glimmers into the past turned dull with the reality that is –but not wanted, vanished so long ago. Replaced with the nothing that death proclaims must be so. And, with it all, heralded is pain. So much pain that whatever could be felt has long-since gone numb. All, as a simple life, once loved, slowly slips into the places, loss to time on bated breath._

“The poor child,” a heavily accented voice notes from atop his steed as he looks to his Lord with saddened eyes. “To suffer such cruelty.”

With a somber nod, the Lord sighs from atop his own. Agreeing with his subordinate’s observation with a look of both acceptance and somber disappointment upon his face. As he allows his eyes to take in the mutilated female form before him. Left dangling from a makeshift scaffold. Left to die along an abandoned mountainous path few would ever venture upon.

Bare for all the world to see and pride smothered forcefully by a monster unknown, extraordinarily long, chestnut hair sways in the gentle breeze as her lithe yet muscular form hangs from cuffs far too small for very own form. They dig into the skin, marring what once was something seemingly so very soft, leaving trails of her very own blood trailing down her dislocated arms to dry in the autumn sun. Her face, mutilated by engulfing bruising and swelling, lulls between her overstretched arms –speaking of traumas pressed upon her visage in multiplicity, with a ferociousness rarely ever seen. Her voice, ever silenced by a knife wound, cannot speak to the suffering bound to her by enemies unknown as open wounds, all across her body, seep and fester with an unhealthiness and indiscriminate decay.

“Such cruelty, indeed,” the Lord comments, sadly. Spurring his steed ever so gently in hopes to inspect the unfortunate soul more closely.

The moment grows quiet as he reaches her, clearing the distance with only a few steps of his mount without another word, as his observant subordinate and the rest of his escort watch the scene at a respectful distance. Allowing the lord’s whims to be sated as he unspokenly demanded, but always alert to any danger that may make itself known is such a moment of accepted disconnect.

His brow falls as he gets within reach. His heart, tugging upon his conscience at the terribleness of the poor woman's fate. To be tortured and tormented so, given not even a single slip of compassion and left to suffer in the final moments of her young life, was not a destiny he would ever wish upon another soul. Not even his greatest enemy. Humiliated and left for dead, left for all who passed by to see her at her most vulnerable, her most low. It was cruelty, truly, and so unworthy of one of the People.

“Your orders?” the subordinate questions, as he comes to his Lord’s side after a time.

“No matter the crime,” the Lord answers. “Such an insult, she does not deserve. Cut her down, Commander.”

“As you wish, Falon,” the man nods.

Spurring his mount gently, the Commander saddles up beside the unfortunate woman’s still form and reaches for his sword.

“ _Venavis!_ ” instantly Lord intervenes, calling to hold and stilling his Commander’s hand with a raise of his own, just as the sound of his sword partially leaving his scabbard echoes and his eyes immediately narrow on the woman’s form with severe scrutiny.

“What is it, Falon?”

“I am unsure,” he answers, tugging on the reins to reassure his own mount –startled by his quickly given order.

For a few quiet moments, the Commander watches his Lord inspect the poor woman’s form and tries to understand what could have happened. What could it be that his Lord had seen or sensed, to call for him to still his hand? But for the life of him, he cannot come up with any instance that sounds plausible. At least, not until he sees his Lord reach out gently and brush his knuckles, ever-so-slightly, against the woman’s ribcage and catches an almost imperceptible tremor shutter through her form.

“She’s...still alive?” questions the final member of their small entourage. A young man with gentle eyes and warm Dalish skin, as he joins his superiors at the scaffold.

Calling upon his magic, the Lord casts a simple flash of a spell and allows it to sink into the young woman’s flesh. In an instant, the magic recoils –as if bouncing off something completely impenetrable –and returns to the Lord’s hand with a slight sting. Causing him to jerk back his hand in surprise. 

“So, it would seem, Lieutenant,” answers their Lord, before reaching out and wrapping his arm around the woman’s waist and nodding at his Commander. “Do it.”

With one fluid movement, the Commander draws his sword and severs the heavily twisted ropes attaching the woman’s cuffs to the scaffold. As soon as the rope gives way, their Lord tightens his grip around the woman and fights against her fall to the ground. With a minuscule groan and tangible force, he tugs her from the drop and pulls her atop his mount. Settling her against him as gently as possible and quickly shifting his attention to her injuries with a frown.

“Can you help her?” questions the Lieutenant.

“Possibly,” the Lord answers, inspecting the wound on her throat suspiciously. “But her injuries are quite severe. It will take several hours, if not days to undo what has been done.”

“Time we don’t have,” the Lieutenant notes.

“How much farther to the checkpoint, Commander?”

“Several hours, Falon,” he answers, looking to his Lord and then to the woman in his arms. “If we move relatively swiftly, we should reach the holding cave just after sundown.”

“Then, we should get moving,” the Lord orders, as he reaches down, grabs the edge of his cloak, and pulls it over the woman’s bare form before him.

“You intend to take her with us?” counters the Commander, a slight tinge of surprise in his voice.

“I intend to see to it that she lives,” he states flatly. In a tone that told both the Commander and the Lieutenant that they could offer no argument to the contrary that could change his mind. “Take point, Commander.”

“As you wish, Falon.” he nods in response. Understanding his Lord’s unspoken explanation as if it had been shouted from the nearest mountaintop. “Let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awakening in a strange place, a soul once thought lost to the world must navigate the strange circumstances she now finds herself in.

_Hot and cold. Pain and pleasure. Light and dark. Felt, but not seen. Heard, but not known. In the plains of existence that should not be, yet somehow begun anew. In a world that was bid farewell. In times that should have been long forgotten in strangely contrived and begotten memories. Yet, returned upon a soul thought lost without wanting. A heart once thought stilled, now beats with a familiar rhythm once more. Awaiting that which waits on the other side._  
  
  


Muffled sounds of unknown and unfamiliar voices, seemingly humming hundreds of thousands of leagues from the nearest shore that would call them home, ring through the muddied waters of an ocean of feelings unfelt in an age. Through her mind. Across her heart. Infused with both confusion of the impossibility of it all and the fear of what that may mean. She does not remember what became of her or how her life still remains within her. In the dreams of a past that would see her fade from memory without remembrance. Her life was doomed to end, and yet the pain of existence remains.

_How?_

The voices grow louder within her as senses begin to fall into the natural harmony of survival. Though the words they speak are too dispirited and foreign to discern from the terrible pain that sweeps into her knowledge as consciousness makes its unwavering call. The coldness at her side, the hardness of unforgiven stone that has never felt such warmth, nor likely to ever, presses into ribs once shattered under insurmountable forces by the very chill of death’s fearsome touch. The pain there long-since banished by unknown possibilities still stiffens with even the slightest breath. Mirroring the knowing, the truth of it, that she still can draw breath in a world that nearly destroyed her. That had destroyed her.

She is fearful. Afraid of what may have been, may be once more. Truer than any truth she has ever known. Yet she knows that such things will find their way through the darkness of unknowing in their own time. And, time –it seems –she now still has. Thought lost now gifted once more. And she will not squander it. Not again.

Pushing through the throbbing in her mind, and screams of pain streaking through every fiber of being, she forces herself to focus. To take stock of her place in the world now. And, what has become of her. Tapping into her senses, calling upon them for the help they offer that all take for granted, she takes in her condition with a discriminant process.

Her mind is strangely dulled. As if it had been forced underwater and never released from its cool embrace. Yet, she can feel the stone beneath her, the coldness before her, and the warmth behind her. The taste of iron stings her tongue, speaking whispers of a trauma that encouraged its flow and stands to bear witness to the pain of a stilled voice. As the sounds of several strange and unknown souls try to make their existence known, with the distant crackles of fire and whispered words, in increments far too small to placate impatience. Enforced darkness consumes all that has been seen or could be seen under a pain-filled veil that may never be lifted again.

_How am I alive?_ The thought comes to her finally. Demanding answers to a question she had not even thought to ask in the dysphoria caused by such unfamiliar circumstances. The wonderment invoked by a curiosity yet sated. Yet, inexplicably true. _How did I get here? Where am I? What...? What happened to me?_

The familiar feel of panic floods her senses the moment those questions force their way into her thoughts. Demanding she delve into her mind, her memories. Commanding her to remember what had come before. But, such memories...such truths are found somewhere she knows she could never look. For they have been lost. Lost to the trauma brought upon her by a past unknown. Forgotten. Erased with a passage of time dissolved by something standing just out of reach. Lost in the darkness of the unremembered.

Suddenly the feel of a warm hand’s touch upon her shoulder storms into the peripheries of her senses, stoking the insatiable forest fire of alarm and trepidation that sparks to life without warning. Screaming at her that she is in danger. That she must run. She must flee. She must escape.

Her war-torn body is on the move before her mind can even catch up to the thought and soon she is turning and scrambling across the hard stone. Determine to excise herself from the clasp of someone both unknown and unseen. Her heart racing like that of hundreds of fearful Halla fleeing through thrush and bramble covered forests from wolves on the hunt. Afraid for their very survival and vying for the protection of the freedom of distance and sanctuary. All in hopes to protect their insignificant little lives. But refuge, her refuge, cannot be found. For stone suddenly blocks her path. Steadfast, determined, and resolute. Denying her the escape she searched for.

“Wait!” a warm, unfamiliar voice calls out.

Unable and unwilling to comply with that which she does not know, and far-too fearful that she will not be gifted the swift end she had somehow longed for, she turns her back to the stone and raises her bound hands over her face to protect herself from what will surely come next. The blow that had always been meant for her. Hoping beyond hope that such a show of insignificance and innocent terror could win her the day and summon forth even the smallest sliver of sympathy. All in hopes that whomever or whatever had dared touch her would show her even a little bit of empathy. Even pity. And offer no harm in return.

“Easy,” the warm, gentle voice gives in comforting response as the same strong hand falls upon her shoulder once more and he repeats. “Easy.”

“Do not be alarmed,” a second voice offers, just as gentle as the first as it appears aside the first on the opposite side and proffers another gentle hand upon her other shoulder. “Little one.”

_Little one?_ She thinks. Instantly insulted and furious by such a cruel choice of words. _How dare they?_

“I –” she immediately tries to counter only to suddenly have the cruelty of pain overtake her words in an explosion of fiery promise from her throat. Drowning her protest instantaneously and drawing forth tears from her very eyes. The eyes somehow still stranded in darkness.

“Do not try to speak, little one,” the first voice warns calmly as his gentle grip tightens ever so slightly. “The damage was quite severe and I could not heal it properly in what time we have been given so far.”

“But, fear not. For in time it will return to you.” the second warm voice adds softly.

_And, until then?_

“Please, little one,” the first voice begins again, just as she feels a hand fall upon her bound wrists and tug them gently. “You need not be afraid. We will not hurt you. You are safe here.”

_Where’s here?_

“Please do not hide,” the first voice pleads, sounding almost desperate at the asking as his gentle tug upon her wrist grows ever so more insistent. “And let me ease your pain.”

Something about the man’s voice calls to her then. Like a distant, cherished memory somehow forgotten for so long yet suddenly remembered with a fondness, she’d never known. Compelling her to comply before she really even knew why. As her hands fall from her face, she feels the warm hand release her wrist and fall upon her throat with a touch so soft that she could barely sense its presence. Instantly the caress of comforting magic slides through her, offering kindness and a numbing that dulls the pain her folly had brought forth before she had even realized. The moment, though calm and kind, lasts for only a few heartbeats, and then it is gone. Leaving behind nothing more than a sense of neutrality behind.

“Better?” the first voice asks, as he undoubtedly watches her as she reaches up and feels her throat.

Unable to answer him properly, she offers him a nod in assurance –drawing her hands together in a symbolic sign of prayer. Hoping beyond hope that he would understand her gratitude.

“Good,” he answers.

“Milord?” a third voice suddenly calls out, somewhere from the distance beyond, making her jump in fright.

“It’s alright, he’s a friend,” the second voice tries to reassure.

“What is it?” the first voice asks.

“It’s time to set the wards, Milord.” the man replies.

“Very well,” the Lord answers before turning his attention back to her. “I will be there in a moment.”

“Little one,” he sighs, addressing her. “I know that all of this is confusing for you. Not knowing where you are or who you are with. But, I assure you... You are safe here. We have no intention of hurting you. And only wish to help. So, please, be at ease. Alright?”

Unable to answer any other way, she offers him another nod.

“Good,” he answers before addressing the other man at her side. “Commander, look after her until I return.”

“Of course,” the second voice agrees without hesitation.

In the silence that falls, as the man’s footsteps recede from her in the lingering seconds after his last address to the man he’d called Commander, she comes to the realization that the situation in which she now finds herself in is far-more concerning than their warm voices had led her to believe. It is at that moment that it truly registers that her hands are bound and that her eyes have been covered. Instinctively forcing her to tug upon the bonds ever so slightly.

“Easy,” the Commander requests gently, his hands falling up her wrists in hopes to arrest her movement ever so slightly.

She instantly pulls away from his hands and pulls on the binding again, lifting her hands to show him what is distressing her. His hand falls upon her wrists once more and he lets out a gentle sigh.

“You must forgive us, little one. It is for our protection as much as it is for yours,” he explains thoughtfully. “You are an unknown, just as we are to you. It was better this way. Better safe than sorry.”

She immediately pulls away again. Though in her mind she does not discredit their need for such scrutiny, it is not really the binds that bother her. It is her eyes. The fact that she cannot see. That something has bound them close and she does not know why. Reaching up, she does her best to show the man what is truly bothering her by touching the cloth she feels over her eyes and allowing her fingers to search for its edges and pull it down.

“No, little one,” he suddenly barks worriedly. Catching her hands and pulling them away. “You mustn’t.”

Determined to fight him on this very real worry, she tries to pull her hands loose from his grip again but this time he will not allow it.

“You mustn’t, little one.” he reiterates. “Your eyes were badly damaged as well. We’ve treated them but they must not be open to the light. Lest you truly lose your vision for good.”

At that news, all the fight suddenly flies out of her and she slumps against the stone in defeat. It takes her a few moments to come to terms with what he has told her and reconcile it with what she’s both sensed and felt since she awoke here. And within that finite moment, she suddenly realized the true depth of her predicament.

_I can’t see. I can’t talk. I can’t go. I shouldn’t stay. What do I do?_

_Damn it! What do I do?_

Suddenly a strange thought crosses her mind: an old memory from a very long time ago. Thought lost to the passage of time. From the days when she was so very young and so very much her true self.

Instantly she reaches out trying her best to get a feel of someone tangible. In seconds she finds the commander’s arm and shakes it. Hoping to get his attention.

“What is it, little one?”

Elation hits her the second she hears his question, knowing that she has his attention, and without hesitation, she immediately lifts her hands and begins to move her fingers –calling forth a pattern she hopes he will understand. When no answer comes from her question, she does it again. Then again and again. Repeating over and over and over, almost desperately. Hoping that he will understand before becoming so worried that such an old tradition may be truly lost here.

“She’s asking you,” came the Lord’s warm voice once more. “If we are from Tevinter. She believes we are slavers.”

Her fingers instantly still and she quickly reaches up with one finger and taps the tip of her nose –confirming he is right.

“How?” the Commander asks. “I do not understand.”

“It's an old Dalish trick,” the third voice suddenly adds from a short distance away as she hears another set of footsteps advance closer to her. “The movements are unmistakable.”

“They call it: _the Way of the Predator Unseen_ , but it is commonly known to those who practice its ways as _Hunter’s Sign_.” the Lord informs, as she feels him crouch back down at her side and his hand falls upon her shoulder once more. “Dalish hunter’s developed it over the last few centuries as a way to communicate with their hunting party without disturbing their prey. A type of silent communication using hand signs and gestures, rather than words, to give warning or orders during the hunt.”

Impressed by his explanation, she smiles ever so slightly and taps the tip of her nose again. _That’s right._

“I see,” replies the Commander. “Can you translate it for her?”

“It has been a long time since I have seen such a practice in action,” he admits. “But I can try.”

The second she hears his answer she signs her question again.

“No,” the Lord answers politely. “We are neither slavers nor from Tevinter. So you need not worry.”

“We are Elvhen, just like you.” the third voice replies.

_‘Prove it!’_ she signs.

The Lord instantly chuckles at her demand.

_‘Prove it!’_ she signs again.

“Very well,” he answers as he reaches out, takes her hand, and pulls it toward him.

In seconds she feels the side of his face against the back of her hand, as it is drawn across his cheek and up to his very pointed ears.

_“See, young one. We are all the same,”_ he immediately reassures, falling into Elvhen to make his point as clear as crystal. 

She instantly gasps and jerks back her hand. Both surprised by the honesty of his heritage and shocked by the fact that their mother tongue flowed so flawlessly from his lips. It takes only a few seconds, however, for that shock to vanish from her mind and propel her into suddenly asking so many questions at once that she doesn’t even care how coherent they may even be.

_‘Who are you? What is your name? Where did you come from? How do you speak the old tongue? How did you learn? Who are the people with you? How did you find me? Did someone send you to find me? Are there people looking for me? How will they find me? Where are we going? What are you going to do to me?’_

_“It’s much too fast,”_ he quickly mutters to himself in Elvhen.

“What is she saying, Falon?” the Commander questions.

“Far too many questions at once for me to follow,” he answers.

“Slow down, little one,” he begs softly as he watches their new charge’s fingers fly around in midair before her and he reaches out to still them. “I cannot understand you.”

_‘There is so much I need to ask’._ She answers in frustration. Tugging her hands, from his own, to make her point.

“We are well aware that you have many questions but none can find answers if the questions cannot be understood,” replies the Lord. “’ T’would be better to be mindful of both your own frustration and our own lacking experience with Hunter’s Sign. And, take it all one moment at a time.”

“Let us...” he adds. “Start at the beginning. What is your name, little one?”

_‘I am not little...’_ She instantly counters –finally tired of hearing that condescending term and allowing a little more of her frustration to show. ‘ _I am not a child!’_

“It seems she finds that term insulting, Milord,” the third voice notes almost absentmindedly.

“Yes, so it would seem, Lieutenant,” he agrees with a slight chuckle. “My apologies, Lethallan.”

“What is your name?” he asks once more.

_‘I cannot tell you.’_ she answers with a shake of her head.

“And, why not?”

_‘There is no way to convey it, in Hunter’s Sign. It’s uncommon. Too unique.’_

“Is something the matter, Falon?” the Commander questions, noticing the frown upon his friend’s face.

“She cannot tell us her name. There is no sign or gesture for it, it seems,” he replies.

_‘Do you have parchment, ink? Perhaps I could write it down?’_ she questions.

“I am afraid that is not possible, either.” the Lord counters with disappointment lacing his tone. “We were beset by a heavy rainstorm three days ago. All of my writing supplies were destroyed in the process.”

_‘Oh, for the love of the damn void!’_ she immediately gestures with irritation.

“Yes,” he chuckles in agreement, noting the very same chuckle that quietly came from his Lieutenant behind him. “It was quite unfortunate.”

With such news, she finds herself lost without options. Without the ability to speak her name, nor sign it or write it down, their unfamiliarity and distrust would grow. She knew she was lucky to be found by those who held no ill will of her but whether or not that was entirely true of them, she still was unsure. She knew she had to project a confidence that stated perfectly that she was, in no way, a threat to them or a cause of concern, but to do that she needed to make them feel comfortable about her presence among them. And to do that, they needed to know her name. She needed to show them that she was nothing worth worry or suspicion. Just a simple woman, without an ulterior motive.

Silence falls between them in those moments of contemplation and for a few minutes, she cannot think of any other way to give them her name other than writing it somehow. But without parchment and ink, the possibilities were quickly dwindling. Her hope, failing with it. Until, suddenly, a random thought flickers across her mind. A very primitive thought.

Without a gesture in explanation, she immediately bends down and begins to run her hand across the stone floor beneath her. Desperately searching for something she hopes she can find. A stone, a rock, a broken sliver of the cave’s interior that she could fashion into a writing instrument. It takes only a few moments of searching before her fingertips graze a small shard near where she had drawn her heels in earlier. Picking it up she immediately turns and rolls the stone in her hand. Trying her best to feel the stone since she could not see it properly. It takes only a few seconds more, and finally, she feels a rather sharp edge on one of its corners.

_Perfect._

When she turns herself fully towards her small audience once more, each man looks upon her with curiosity and quickly notes the small stone in her hand, before she turns her attention to the stone floor directly before her. Reaching out once more, she tucks the stone into her left palm and begins to rub the stone floor gently with tips of her fingers. Feeling both the coldness of the stone and filth that lay upon it, she instantly turns her attention to cleaning it away. Hoping with every swipe of her hand she is clearing away enough for her purpose. It is at that moment that recognition of her intent becomes clear, and soon she catches the simple graze of another hand not her own across her fingers. Speaking clearly without words that the men watching her are lending their aid.

“It should be clear enough now, Lethallan,” the Commander informs a few seconds later. “If you wish to attempt to script your name, that is.”

Giving him a nod, she tentatively reaches out and feels the stone again. Looking for the smoothest part she can find, and just as she puts shard to stone something in her commands her to stop. In that second, questions demand her immediate attention. 

_Are you just going to willingly give them your name? Without making them prove themselves worthy of knowing?_

The thought was a valid one. Should she be so forthcoming to people she could not even look upon, let alone truly trust? She knew nothing of them, aside from their apparent heritage. She did not even know their names, their purpose here, or even their intent when it came to her. How could she be so open and honest with them without gaining something in return? Without learning something from them. Without meeting the requirements often demanded by the process of _give and take_ and come to a mutual understanding of their true natures?

_That would not be wise._ She warns herself. _So how can I learn something of them? Perhaps something they would not usually divulge to a stranger? What way would be best to get them to relinquish their secrets?_

For a pregnant pause, she contemplates those questions, trying to determine the best way to get what she wanted. Until a nearly sly thought crosses her mind.

_A test? Yes. A complicated test that on the surface would look so very simple. But what? They want my name. They want to know me. I could just tell them. Write my name in Common, and be done with it. But what advantage could that give me? What could I learn from doing something so mundane? Nothing, of course. I would learn nothing. But... If I tested... Yes, tested their knowledge with a simple puzzle, I am sure I will learn a great deal. Twist the language? Test their true knowledge? Yes! That’s a perfect idea. Grand indeed. And if they fail...If they fail I can just give them what they want as easily as before._

With her decision finally made, she leans in –using her body to obscure her work deliberately –and begins to scratch two symbols into the stone. Taking her time. Making sure that with every upwards and downward draw of the stone, her purpose is clear and that every line and curve were proportionate and precise. Mirror the very images of the glyphs her memory had drawn upon. So that they were as perfect as they could possibly be, seemingly drawn by the very hand of a master artisan themselves. Because they need to be just that: perfect. To truly test their true station in this life and unveil the secrets they kept close.

When the final stroke needed is pressed upon the stone, she enacts her plan. Sliding her hand down inches from her creation, she feels the stone for only a second before taking the shard in her hand and scratching four lines, in a continuous consecutive line. Pressing them into the stone side by side, like that of a broken road waiting to be traversed by the most unsuspecting traveler, until she is finally satisfied that they will fulfill her purpose well and she leans back –revealing her work for all to see.

Their reaction is instant.

“Is that...” questions the Commander, both disbelief and warning in his voice, the second his eyes fall upon the symbols scrawled before her. “Falon, is that what I think it is?”

“So it would seem, Commander,” his Lord answers, his tone: suspiciously bereft of emotion.

“But that’s not possible!” he counters. “Hieratic Elvhen hasn’t been spoken in Thedas in thousands of years. There is no way she could even know what it is, let alone, be fluent in it enough to use it properly.”

_Ah, so that's it then._ She realizes with a barely hidden smile. _Elvhen, surely. But, not of this age. Yes. Ancients, then. But, how deeply do the roots of their heritage go, I wonder? Do they all share the same time?_

“ _Hieratic Elvhen_?” questions the Lieutenant. “What is that? I’ve never heard that term before.”

_Guess not, then. That one is definitely of the People. Dalish, most likely._

“You wouldn’t have,” answers the Lord. “It is an uncommon art that was lost to time, long ago.”

“Uncommon,” the Lieutenant repeats. “Why was it uncommon?”

“It was an ordained, written dialect solely reserved for the temple priesthood.” the Commander explains, sounding somewhat awestruck by the very fact that he was having to broach such an old custom in conversation. “Taught to only the most worthy: the High Priest or Priestess in charge of the temple. Or, to those who would one day succeed them.”

“And, created solely,” the Lord adds, turning his attention back to the woman before them. “To protect their most coveted secrets.”

_Reawakened, then. From before the Fall, most likely. Perhaps a millennium or two since their fall into Uthenera? Possibly._

With a nearly cunning smile upon her face, she can do nothing more than reach up, touch the tip of her nose in confirmation, and try her best to keep the feelings of being impressed by what she had already learned from her face.

“And how does she know such language?” counters the Lieutenant.

_‘Grandmother taught me.’_ she answers carefully.

“Your grandmother?” retorts the Lord in disbelief. “And just how could your grandmother know such an ancient, forgotten, and obscure dialect?”

_Give and take._ She reminded herself. _Give and take._

Letting out a slow breath, knowing that since she had taken them down this path she must answer, she lifted her hands once more a made a gesture that only a few had ever seen produced in Hunter’s Sign. And, his reaction was instantaneous.

“That’s not possible.”

_‘I assure you, ‘tis true.’_ she replies.

“What did she say, Falon?”

“She says...” he sighs softly. “That her grandmother was... a _Hearth Keeper_.”

“A follower the _Vir Atish’an_?” counters the Lieutenant in disbelief. “A Daughter of Peace? Protector of hearth and home? A Mistress of Hearthfire?”

“But...that’s...”

“Impossible.” the Commander dismisses. “When the last of her temples were destroyed, the last of the honored daughters of Sylaise died. Before the Fall. And with their loss, so too, were their true ancient traditions.”

_‘Perhaps,’_ she answers. _‘They did. But their teachings did not. They lived on, as too, did the People.’_

“So that’s it then.” the Lord concludes, seemingly understanding something that had not been outright said but thoroughly implied. “Your grandmother was a follower of the old ways. Not a descendant but a dedicated believer.”

With a smile, she nods again and touches the tip of her nose to wholeheartedly confirm his speculation.

“And, she taught you Hieratic?”

_‘A little.’_ she answers with another nod.

“But, what do the symbols mean, Milord?” questions the Lieutenant curiously. “Can you read them?”

“Possibly...” he replies after a deliberate pause.

“Hieratic Elvhen was a dialect built on nuance upon nuance.” the Commander clarifies. “Elaborate in its creation, and complicated for even the most astute followers. Precision was key to understanding. If even a single line were to skew from its proper place, the entire meaning could be changed to drastic effect and lose all meaning.”

“That’s why its intricacies were so closely guarded,” he adds with a sigh. “It’s cipher protected by only those who knew the way.”

_‘And do either of you know the way?’_

“I guess we shall see, Lethallan,” the Lord answers.

With a knowing smile quickly plastered upon her face, she simply gives him a nod and motions to the symbols upon the stone. Both offering him a chance to try and challenging him to best the puzzle before her.

_‘Then, let us see.’_ she adds.

“Very well, then,” the Lord replies, as she instantly feels him move to sit beside her; pressing his back upon the stone behind her for only a second; and then lean forward.

_Good._ She thinks. _At least he understands the fundamentals of perspective. Perhaps he’s a former initiate himself? Or even a priest? If so, that would be interesting. And, if not, that would mean he can only be... something far more intriguing._

“Can you make it out, Milord?” questions the Lieutenant as he watches him study the symbols for a moment. “Does it look familiar to you?”

“Possibly. Tis a puzzle, though. Of that, I have no doubt.”

“A puzzle?” counters the Lieutenant.

“A grammatical puzzle.” clarifies the Commander, as he raises his eyes and looks at her with a discerning eye. “Hieratic was famous for its meanings upon meanings. Full of unseen obstacles, only overcome by those who could see them for what they really were. Simply knowing or memorizing the language was never enough. To translate it properly, you must determine intent and dissect the dialect from that perspective.”

“But, not just the perspective of the writer's intent,” the Lord adds. “You must know also their physical perspective as well. From what direction they stood, looked, or leaned, when creating the symbols. And even, sometimes, the very moment of the day in which they were written. To find true understanding.”

Impressed by their knowledge of such a complicated construct, she gave them another nod and then retreated from the space. Leaning back against the stone to wait for them to work through it –if they could. The moment grows quiet for a time and then; when she truly started to believe that they would not be able to even scratch the surface of the puzzle; the Lord spoke up once more.

“ _Ska’lin...ash’kar?_ ”

“ _Ska’lin_ : meaning blood of the sky, or bird?” he offers in question. “And, a _sh’kar_ : meaning light of day. Or, the sun.”

“Bird of the sun?” questions the Lieutenant. “A phoenix, then?”

“No,” clarifies the Commander. “It’s not _ash’kar_ , but _ra’shka_.”

“ _Ra’shka_?” repeats his Lord.

“Yes, see?” he explains, pointing to the symbol. “It is the symbol for the sun, truly, but it’s been written backward. To mean the opposite of the sun: the moon. _Ra’shka_.”

“So, a bird of the moon?” the Lieutenant speculates.

“An owl.” the Lord concludes, looking back up at the symbols’ creator. “These are the Hieratic symbols for an owl.”

_Well, I’ll be damned._

_What have I gotten myself into?_ She instantly questions to herself. _This is not good._

Hiding the immediate concern for her wellbeing that flashed through her the second the Lord came to his conclusion, she does her best to remain as unphased and she possibly can and touches the tip her nose once more.

_‘Well done,’_ she gestures carefully.

“But that is not your name?” the Lord counters.

_‘No, it is not. But the symbols can show you the way.’_

“Then, by your lead, Lethallan.”

Once again, she leans forward and touches the stone. Allowing her fingers to graze its surface to find the symbols once more and reacclimate herself to both their location and the location of the lines she had drawn earlier. When her fingers graze the first symbol, she rolls the stone in her palm and turns it just enough to tap the symbol, and then sign again.

_‘Say it.’_

“Ska’lin,” he repeats.

Sliding her hand down to the first two broken lines she had scribed before she taps each line in a rhythm –accentuating each syllable.

“Ska...” he answers as the stone hits the first line.

“Lin,” he adds as it hits the second.

She immediately nods, noting that he is following her thoughts correctly, and then instantly takes the shard in her hand, scratches out the first line, and taps the second line again.

“Lin,”

_‘No n,’_ she clarifies.

“ _Li,_ then.”

_Right._ She nods before returning to the symbols once more and tapping the second glyph in a rhythm mirroring the word’s syllables.

“Ra’...shka,” he repeats.

She nods again and quickly mimes the syllables upon the two remain lines before scratching out the second syllable and tapping the first again.

“Ra.”

Encouraged that he was truly following her lead and so close to putting it together, she gives him a knowing smile and begins to tap the final syllable of the first word and the first syllable of the second word. One, then twice, and as the stone hits the first syllable for the third time, he finally speaks again.

“Ly... ra,” the Lord answers. “Your name is Lyra?”

Lyra instantly drops the stone her hand and nods enthusiastically.

‘ _That’s right!’_

“Unique, indeed.” the Commander notes quietly.

“Agreed.” the Lord nods.

“Well, then, Lady Lyra,” the Lord offers with an unseen smile. “Tis a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance properly _.”_

_‘I wish I could say the same.’_ she counters. _‘But, I know not your name.’_

“Then, I shall offer it to you in good faith, Lethallan.”

“If it pleases you,” he answers with a respectful and calm voice. “You may call me Solas.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With introductions made, Solas comes to the conclusion that to sate his curiosity he must engage Lyra in conversation in a more intimate setting and sends his men to their beds. Never expecting the conversation that would soon follow. The little insights into her hidden personality and the disturbing truths about her current circumstances that would unsettle him even more than he had already been -simply because of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: Chapter Live Date (06/20/2020) Word Count: 5100+

Even beneath the bandages clouding her sight, Solas does not miss how her face seems to slightly pale and how her lip subtly twists at the corner of her mouth in distaste at the mention of his name.

It was a telling reaction, almost so insignificant that had he not been specifically looking for it he would have never noticed, that spoke of recognition previously unrealized. But what she knew, what she had heard, or what she had inferred at that moment would remain lost to him for the time being. Not because he held no curiosity, nor a wish to understand why she had reacted in such a way, but because he suddenly realized that calling attention to it could bring with its questioning a more visceral and defensive reaction than what he wanted. A reaction that was more likely to be detrimental to his intentions, his need for answers, than beneficial.

To say that he had not been struck by a touch of curiosity because of her would have been an outright lie. From the moment he’d found her on that abandoned mountain path, left with nothing more than the company of death to see her onward to the beyond, and sensed life remaining within her, he could not deny how his inner thoughts pulled him to her and the many questions that forced themselves to the forefront of his mind.

She was an unknown, a riddle where an answer was needed. A puzzle: that both his mind and heart suddenly demanded he solves –for no other purpose save for sating his own curious nature. A nature that she had inconspicuously roused, seemingly by accident, yet had stoked like a forest fire, the very moment she decided to deliberately test them.

For it had been deliberate. Of that, he was sure. He had recognized it instantly, both her intent and purpose in inscribing a language very few souls could ever know. With such mastery, that it foretold a story both ancient and unseen. A truth both lost and unknown, somehow begging to be known once more. Calling out for understanding and acceptance. And, he would answer it. For he, too, knew what such a truth could truly mean.

Taking the lull in conversation that naturally appeared the moment they were finally introduced formally, and under the guise of her health, Solas quickly decided to end their gentle interrogation of the woman by commenting that the day was growing long. Suggesting that, for the time being, they should focus on bedding down for the night and worry about any more specifics once they reached the base of their operations near midday next. His Commander had agreed without protest, a testament to the man’s unflinching loyalty and trust, and returned to dealing with the final preparations for the night. Stoking and feeding the small campfire they had built within the confines of the holding cave they had taken refuge in and seeing to it that the horses resting outside were taken care of per his Lord’s requirements.

In the interim, as his men tended to their instructions, Solas took a moment to fish out some rations and a flask of water for the woman. Offering it to her with the instructions that she should try to mitigate both her hunger and dehydration as best as she could and warning her to take her time. Hoping that she would listen, take his advice, and be keen on nurturing her own recovery as he had been from the moment he took custody of her and tried to save her life. And, to her credit, it seemed that her intention to survive was strong. For she did not argue. Accepting the proffered sustenance without even the slightest hesitation and offering her own gratitude for his care with a slight bow of thanks as he quietly settled beside her to watch over her.

It wasn’t long before his Commander and Lieutenant followed his instructions to letter, bedding down for the night atop the bedrolls they had set out earlier in the evening. Allowing the small, cavernous space to fall into a relative silence save for the lightly crackling sound of the fire.

Taking the silence into consideration, Solas sat quietly beside their new charge and watched her with both suspicious and curious eyes. Wondering a great many things about her and accepting the questions that came with all that he had learned so far and what he had yet to come to know.

_Who is she, really?_ he wonders. _And why was she left for dead in such a horrendous manner?_

_From the look of her injuries it seems that perhaps she has been tortured, but for what purpose? What reason would someone have to be so cruel? Nearly bludgeoned to death, throat slit, ribs shattered...and strung up and left for the crows to devour? Without even the smallest semblance of respect? Not for her life or even her heritage?_

_Humans._ He concludes with a dire hint of distaste. _Most likely. But, why?_

_Could it be simply because she’s one of the people? Could it, really, be that simple? Simply hatred of our kind? Forcefully done simply out of anger and guile? Could that be it? That her life was simply wasted deliberately, all because of the vileness brought against the people in some mock display of justice and solidarity? Of a desire for recompense and retaliation?_

_All because of the stories being told of my cause? My purpose and intent? Could she really have been nearly killed, simply because of supposed guilt or association with those who seek to remake the world? At the expense of this one?_

_Or,_ He counters himself. _Could it be something far more simplistic? Could she have done something, insulted someone, stole something, or committed some crime that made someone feel so justified? That garnered the ire of the humans so viscerally that they felt destroying her very being and leaving her to die in such humiliation was the only fitting punishment?_

_Unlikely._ He counters himself again, allowing his logical mind to ponder the details further. _Even if she did such a thing, acted in such a way, or committed such a crime, no one would have simply mutilated her so and left her to die in some remote location where she could not be held up as an example. If her deeds had been so criminal, so cruel, or in violation of what humans thought of as right and just, no one would ignore or toss away the opportunity to use her as another piece of manipulatable propaganda to erode the waning trust in the People. They would have used her surely._

_Unless...the circumstances of her actions or, perhaps more likely theirs, were suspect from the start. Done not out of some semblance of justice or retribution for some crime she had committed...but simply done to satiate someone’s hate and malice towards the entirety of the People._

_Which, if true, would make her...a victim._ He concludes with a frown. _Another victim of humanity’s cruelty and, perhaps, even without true cause._

So lost in thought, it takes Solas a moment to realize that the silence permeating the holding cave had been broken by the sound of uncontrollable coughing. When it finally registers, he turns to see Lyra covering her mouth as a thin stream of water runs from the corner of her lips and down her chin. Inciting the understanding as to why she was making such a noise seemingly out of nowhere.

“Easy,” Solas breathes softly, reaching out and taking the flask from her bound hands. “You mustn’t drink too quickly. The muscles in your throat will need some time to acclimate to the strange sensations of function after being unable to cope for so long. So you must take it easy and go slowly.”

_‘Why is it not healed fully?’_ she signs awkwardly as she tried to stifle back another cough and inquire at the same time.

“It is due to my inability, I’m afraid,” Solas answers in admission. “Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am afraid that my magical ability has been greatly reduced for the time being. So, I was unable to muster the strength to complete the healing process as thoroughly as I’d have liked –or as is necessary.”

_‘Then,’_ she signs swiftly. ‘ _Use lyrium.’_

“If I had such rations with me, I would have,” Solas replies politely. “But I'm afraid, again due to circumstances beyond my control, I find myself bereft of any remaining supply of potions to utilize.”

“But, fear not,” he adds, hoping to assuage any concerns she might have. “Once we return to my home, I will be in a position to recover my strength and tend to your wounds fully within a day.”

“So, until then, I would ask for your patience. As well as your cooperation and due diligence.”

_‘Alright.’_ she signs, nodding slightly.

Falling into the previously lost silence once more, Solas chooses to leave Lyra be and let her continue to eat without interruption. Keeping to his volunteered duty to simply watch over her and offer assistance if ever needed, rather than to press any questions to her in such a moment. Accepting that, at least for the next day, he will have more opportunities to learn about the mysterious woman currently teasing his curiosity with every breath she takes.

_‘Pride?’_ she signs sometime later, catching Solas’ attention out of the corner of his eye just as he was about to doze off without realizing it.

“Yes?”

_‘May I ask a question?’_

“You may, ” he answers softly.

_‘Your companions,’_ she questions, almost boldly. ‘ _Are they aware of who you really are?’_

“And just who do you think I am, lethallan?” Solas deflects, voice suspicious and slightly caught off guard by such a question.

_‘A wolf in sheep’s clothing.’_ she signs with a slightly sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips. ‘ _Birthed from an age long before an age truly came to be.’_

_So that’s her angle._ Solas instantly understands. _It seems she is quite intuitive._

_I must be more careful._ He reminds himself. _And not give away too much._

“You sound so confident in such assumptions,” baits Solas. “Of my lineage, but how can you truly be certain that you have discovered truth rather than a fiction created by...”

_‘Because you are Pride.’_ she interrupts, allowing her sly smile to grow a little larger upon her face. ‘ _The wolf that hides among unknowing sheep, masking itself in plain sight, awaiting the moment in which it can strike the heart of all worlds.’_

_A Dalish proverb._ He mentally notes, glancing up at her face. _Interesting._

_‘The Wolf is neither honest nor loving, caring nor kind, trustworthy nor respectful.’_ she continues knowingly. _‘For Pride, in of itself, can be nothing if not that which hides among the people under the ruse of understanding, acceptance, charity, kindness, and wisdom. Obscuring knowledge, truth, loyalty, and valor, all in hopes of learning the ways of a steady heart. Yet, doomed to never find such clarity.’_

_‘A monster,’_ she concludes with a little nod. _‘Whose existence stands as a testament to the clash of tyrannical thoughts and actions of apathy and unfilled desire –lost under the longing guidance of truth forever denied and a blindness to the most inherent belief that binds us all.’_

“Which is?” prompts Solas, narrowing his eyes.

_‘The world was born from duality.’_ she recites with a flash of confidence. ‘ _And it shapes us all.’_

_‘Without love, there can be no hate. Without wisdom, there can be no pride. Without trust, there can be no betrayal. Without understanding, there can be no conflicting ideals. Without the progenitor, there can be no offspring. And without the beginning, there can be no end.’_

“Which means?” he prompts again, hoping to catch a little more insight on a probable explanation for such a poignant recitation. 

_‘Pride exists because it must; because without it, wisdom and the world could never truly exist.’_

“Does that thought not worry you?” counters Solas with a smirk as he leans into her space with an air of warning. Hoping to glean even the slightest sliver of her overall understanding of the platitudes, ideals, and metaphorical assumptions masking truth she spouts, and whether or not she accepts them for what they may truly mean. “Does that thought make you fearful of what Pride truly is? What Pride could truly do –if it is, ever, of the mind?”

_‘Never.’_ she replies, her hands signing her answer with deliberate force.

“And, why not?” he breathes out in an almost menacing tone.

_‘Because...’_ she answers, signing with movements so smoothly that they spoke volumes. Declaring with finality, a conviction not so easily expressed. ‘ _A cunning wolf is more useful than a lazy mabari.’_

“Yet more likely to bite the hand that feeds,” Solas notes with a slight challenge edging his voice. “Than not.”

_‘It wouldn’t be the first time_.’ she signs, her smile growing across her face once more just as she accidentally lets out a tiny chuckle and tries to ignore the small flash of pain caused by it. 

“But, why risk it?” he counters, silently judging her. Both on her words and her reactions.

_‘Because there can be no reward without risk, no triumph without trials and tribulations, no victory without conflict and strife. No truth without lies, no knowledge without ignorance, and no growth without failure.”_

“And, have you failed?”

_‘Haven’t we all? At one point or another?’_

Initially suspicious of how their conversation had begun, Solas suddenly finds himself more amused than he would have ever thought. He had never taken a moment to contemplate the possibilities that there could be more to Lyra than just an unfortunate Elvhen of her time. Lost to the truths of the world almost deliberately forgotten over time. And, yet, here she was. Debating the existence of the inherent duality in existence, with him, as if she was some ancient scholar that had spent hundreds of mortal lifetimes pondering the intricacies of the purpose of life, and speaking truths that he had never thought he would ever hear again.

“You are well educated, Lethallan,” he notes, almost in awe of such a realization. “Your aptitude and expertise for philosophical ideals are unrivaled by most.”

_‘My grandmother taught me well,’_

“So, it would seem,” Solas agrees, before deliberately offering a backhanded compliment –in hopes of learning a little more about the woman without having to question her outright. “She must be quite proud.”

_‘I wouldn’t know,’_ Lyra answers, her face falling with a hint of sadness and inadvertently giving Solas the open door he had been searching for. A way to learn more about the curious creature before him.

“And may I ask, why?”

_‘She died when I was barely ten,’_ she answers slowly. _‘Killed by the Templars when they came to take me.’_

“Take you? Why?”

_‘Is it not obvious? Why else would Templars take a young Dalish girl from her clan before she could even earn her Vallaslin?’_

“You’re...” he balks, surprised by her choice of words and a little thrown by the sudden realization that hits him at that moment. “You’re a mage?”

_‘You didn’t already know? I thought all Ancients could sense magic in others.’_

“We can...” Solas answers, perplexed by such an unexpected development. “But with you, I sense...nothing.”

_‘Why am I not surprised?’_ she signs, adding a nearly frustrated sigh for emphasis.

“What do you mean, Lethallan?” Solas questions, a slip of worry lacing his tone.

_‘I thought perhaps that you could sense my magic, and just could not bring yourself to mention it. Fearing I may react poorly by the mention. But, if you can not sense even a flicker of my aura, that means what I suspect must be true.’_

“Which is?”

_‘Whoever did this to me,_ ’ she answers, motioning to herself before finishing her thought. _‘Must have suppressed my magic more deeply than I thought.’_

_‘Most likely, with vast amounts of Magebane.’_ she adds hastily. _‘Because my connection to the Fade has been broken. I feel empty.’_

“And why would someone want to do such a thing?” Solas questions with morbid curiosity. “Why would anyone want to take your magic away? And, then try to take your life?”

_‘I...I don’t know.’_ she signs, sighing heavily. Looking far-more disturbed by that fact, then he would have ever expected of someone who may be avoiding answering such a question. _‘I don’t remember.’_

_‘I’ve been sitting here trying to remember what happened. How I ended up here, like this, but everything is just blank, dark.’_

“All of it, your memories?” he presses further.

_‘No,’_ she signs, shaking her head. _‘I remember my life before. My childhood, my family, my life studying magic in the Circle before the war, my trip to Antiva City... my time there and the day I left to travel to Denerim, but...but after that its...mostly all a blur. And then just gone.’_

“Do you remember why you were going to Denerim?”

_‘Yes,’_ she immediately nods. _‘I was escorting a young boy, a city-elf mage, back to Denerim –to his distant family. He was barely nine years old and had fled the Antivan Circle, where he was taking refuge, just days before the Qunari attacked Antiva City.’_

_The Qunari..._ Solas notes silently, his heart dropping at their mention. _That wo_ _uld mean..._

_‘I found him hiding out in the root cellar of a local tavern outside the city. Trying to keep away from the soldiers who were looking for him –even though the city was under siege.’_

“Why were they looking for him?” he asks, in a vague attempt to ignore a disturbing thought that whispered in his mind.

_‘I’m unsure, but I got the sense that he held some significance to some noble or lord in the city. Most likely either a coveted slave or, more likely, an illegitimate heir. At least, that is what I suspected –considering how desperate the guards seemed to be in wanting to find him.’_

“And the boy, what reason did he give for running away?” replies Solas curiously.

_‘He didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask. That the child was scared for his life and needed help, was enough for me.’_

“How did you manage to get out of the city?” he counters, deliberately ignoring the inherent bravery and selflessness in her choice in hopes of learning even more. “How did you avoid detection and capture?”

_‘We fled west, towards the mountains, with a caravan of merchants and refugees –hoping to avoid any patrols until we could turn south and head for Starkhaven in the Free Marches. The plan was to move south from there until we could reach Kirkwall, and catch a ship heading to Ferelden.’_

“And, once you got him to Denerim, what then?”

_‘Who knows?’_ she quips. _‘I didn’t plan that far ahead. Just wanted to get him somewhere safe.’_

“And the boy, where is he now?”

_‘I don’t know, which worries me.’_ she signed, sighing heavily again. _‘He is still a child, barely able to control his magic properly or understand the world as it now stands, and without help, he will never make it home.’_

“Where were you when you were last together? Do you remember?”

_‘Maybe nine or ten days out from Antiva City?’ she speculates. ‘I’m not sure, really. It's all a bit fuzzy.’_

_‘My last clear memory was when we stopped to camp for the night about eight days into the journey. When the caravan came across an injured Antivan soldier –a deserter. He was pretty bad off, many injuries, but I managed to stave off his death and heal most of his wounds.’_

“This man, this soldier, what became of him? Did you let him go? Or, did you allow him to travel with you?”

_‘The caravan’s leader, Old man Christoph, said it wouldn’t be right to just patch him up and leave him by the wayside for other soldiers to find him. Said they would kill him on the spot for desertion, no matter how justified his excuse may have been, so we took him with us. But where he is now, or what happened to him –or even the rest of the caravan –I don’t know.”_

“Do you think you and the caravan may have come across some type of ambush? Or ran afoul of some enemy not expected? And that’s why you ended it up like this?”

_‘It's possible. The western lands of an Antiva are not known for being exactly safe and stable right now –which is why it is always better to travel in large groups. You’re less likely to come across trouble when you outnumber those who would do you harm.’_

_‘But, with the Qunari invasion in the north and east, as with any instability or conflict, there will always be divisive souls willing to capitalize no matter the situation. It is possible, even very likely, that we may have come across a rogue band of bandits, or some other desperate group that devolved from acts of common decency merely to survive.’_

_‘But, whether that is the truth of it or not, I really can’t be sure at the moment.’_ she notes _. ‘It would be easier to come to even some small idea of what happened if I knew exactly where I am right now. With that, I may be able to come up with some kind of timeline that could give me some idea of how long it’s been since my memory first disappeared.’_

_‘You must have at least some idea of time, in regards to my condition. Any thoughts?’_ she questions curiously.

“Taking into consideration the extent of your injuries and the amount of time it would take for some of them to manifest after affliction, I would estimate the time frame in which you had been left on that scaffold to be somewhere between three to five days.” Solas speculates logically before adding knowingly. “As to where we currently are, there is no definitive landmarks in the area that I can cite that could narrow it down with any efficiency.”

“But, I can say that we are approximately three days east of the southern end of the Hundred Pillars and six days north of Antiva’s southwestern border.”

_‘Meaning we are somewhere southwest of the great lake in the Green Dales.’_ she infers almost knowingly.

“Half a day south of the lake,” Solas clarifies, impressed by her uncharacteristically astute sense of direction. “Actually.”

_“Which means...that at some point we did manage to turn south as planned.’_

“Possibly,” he agrees.

_‘Damn it.’_ she hastily signs. _‘Then that means that there is, at minimum, a six-day gap in my memory –if not even longer.’_

_‘We were three to four days out from the turn south the night of my last memory.’_ she explains further. ‘ _Which means: something must have happened within that time frame that led to my current situation. But for the life of me, I don’t know what.’_

“I believe the timeframe can be narrowed even more,” Solas answers, his mind churning with a myriad of possible solutions. “If we can pinpoint the day you left Antiva City, we can plot out the movement of time between when you left and where your memory stops and compare that to now.”

“When did you leave the city and start heading west?” he quickly questions.

_‘At daybreak, on the sixth day of Cloudreach.’_

“Cloudreach? Are you sure?” balks Solas, completely surprised.

‘Yes,’ she nods.

“Are you, absolutely, sure it was Cloudreach?” he counters again –a slight hint of panic in his tone.

_‘Yes! Why?_ she reiterates, seeming to sense his astonishment brought forth from her honest answer. _‘Is there is something wrong with Cloudreach?’_

“No, not at all, Lethallan,” Solas sighs in defeat, now knowing that something truly sinister had happened to the woman before him. “It’s just...”

_‘It’s just, what, Pride?’_ she retorts. _‘What are you not telling me?’_

“Today...” he sighs heavily. “Today is the eighteenth day of...Solace.”

_‘That’s not possible!’_ she angrily signs, turning in his direction.

“I’m afraid it is, Lethallan,” he answers, his tone apologetic.

_‘It can’t be!’_ she argues forcefully, her fingers moving with strength and a hint of panic. _‘If that’s true...if that’s true that would mean that I have... That it’s been nearly FOUR MONTHS since I left the city.’_

_‘That I have...that I have somehow lost...’_

“Try to stay calm, Lyra,” Solas pleads gently, using her given name to reassure her empathetically as he reaches out and moves swiftly to grab her hands –hoping to still both them and her panicked thoughts for a moment. When she does not immediately pull away to counter his words in frustration, he allows a gentle sigh to fall from his lips and tries to assuage her concerns further with his own. “You mustn’t allow yourself to get so upset. It will not help our understanding and being too emotional will not help your recovery.”

“I know that such news is distressing,” he tries to explain his concern as he tightens his grip ever-so-gently –in hopes of easing her distress. “And I understand your fearfulness, but as much as your feelings are appropriate and understandable, I do not wish for you to harm yourself and exacerbate your injuries because of the unknown.”

“Allowing your confusion to muddle the waters of your tentative perspective and our understanding will do us both no favors. We must remain calm to find the truth.”

“I am sure that, with time, you will come to know the details concerning your current circumstances,” he reassures, releasing her hands slowly. “So long as you allow logic and patience to not be overwhelmed by fear and doubt, you will find the answers you seek. "

_‘And, how I am supposed to do that?’_ she counters, weakly. _‘When so much time has already passed?’_

“With my help. If you will allow it.” Solas offers.

_‘No,’_ she answers, shaking her head _. ‘You’ve already done more than what was needed, what would be expected.’_

_‘That you saved me...is more than enough. Worthy of my gratitude and thanks, but...I cannot ask Pride to go further against his nature than it already has.’_

“Is that not my choice to make, Lethallan?”

_‘The slow arrow of Pride,’_ she recites. _‘Will always come for those foolish enough to believe themselves worthy of its hidden benevolence and who accepts its kindness without question.’_

“Not always, Lyra,” Solas suddenly sighs sadly, having to come to terms with her assumptions of his character once more and sensing the deliberate shift in their conversation instantly.

_‘How can one be sure?’_ she questions, letting out another deep sigh. _‘When Pride’s very own actions have always spoken otherwise?’_

_‘How can I be certain that the path lain out before me will not lead me to more disaster? That I should trust Pride? Or, that I should even trust myself? When the world moves against us all at every turn?’_

“By having faith in yourself and never taking anything for granted,” Solas answers knowingly. “Only then, with strength and tightly held certainty and conviction, may you still find peace –even when the world would forever deny you. Even when failure is all you could ever think to know.”

“It is not who we are that defines us, Lyra, but what we do and why, that matters,” he offers knowingly. “So long as we do not fall into melancholy and apathy, and strive to do what we know we must, we can face any hardship with a clear conscience. And in the end, greet death with an accepting heart, knowing that we did all we could to do what should be done. No matter the outcome and no matter the cost.”

“That we never faltered...even when everything said that we should’ve.”

_‘You would do this...Even when such choices, such determination, would cause nothing but more pain in the end?’_ she counters in opposition. _‘When suffering will continue without hesitation, rebuking the goodwill hiding deep within the hearts of every soul all because of our actions? And all because it simply must? All because it believes it has no other choice?’_

“Even then,” he agrees.

_‘But why?’_ she counters. _‘Why allow yourself to be so ruined by that which you cannot change? Why lose yourself in that which has been lost? Forsaking all others, with no hope of finding the truth your heart endeavors to find?’_

_‘Is that not, in of itself, the very definition of futility? To repeat the same sins of the past, hoping for a different outcome, when no other outcome could ever be had?’_

“What would have us do, otherwise, Lethallan? Give up?” he counters, suddenly feeling slightly insulted. “Capitulate to the idea that this is all we can be, should be, and accept that which should be changed as fact rather than fiction? Abandoning both our beliefs and ideals, for a modicum of thinly-veiled existence –all in hopes that it can mask the truth that propriety suddenly demands we ignore?”

_‘No,’_ she answers, shaking her head in dismissal. _‘Not at all.’_

_‘I simply believe that with every action we take, we must take into consideration the consequences that will come forth merely because of the choices we make.’_ she explains. _‘To weigh our options, not only against our own principles but also against the necessities of all, and to choose the path that gives more than it will ever take... is the only way to leave this world and still be a peace with yourself.’_

_‘Anything less than that, and you have not only failed yourself but all those who seek the comfort of happiness so often denied for no other reason –save for the selfishness of another.’_

_‘That is why,’_ she adds, taking in a determined breath and smiling. _‘I cannot ask you to do more than you already have. I will not be selfish and force another to be selfless simply because I lack the determination to face my inadequacies on my own.’_

_‘So, you need not do more than what you have already promised. I shall not hold you to anything more than that, nor will I expect any more of Pride than I already have.’_

“And, what if Pride wishes to offer more? Out of understanding and not out of obligation? Will you accept it?”

_‘I don’t know,’_ she answers, sighing heavily once more.

“Would you consider it, if it was amenable to the path you wish to walk?’

_‘Possibly,’_ she signs with a little nod.

“Then I shall endeavor to find a common ground we both are willing to share, Lyra,”

_‘If that is what you wish,’_ she smiles. _‘Then so be it.’_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas' Commander finds himself having to deal with the wolf's predictable whims and look after Lyra. As they travel north towards their sanctuary, an intimate and interesting conversation occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: Chapter Live Date (09/18/2020) Word Count: 4600+

Under a swarm of stormy pale clouds, the morning followed not with a gentle rise but with the melodious pattering of misty rain. Drawing the Commander from his peaceful slumber and urging him to begin the day once more with an unexpected sense of calm.

Allowing himself a brief moment of contentment, rarely yielded to, he lets out a faint sigh and marks the temptation with deep reverence as he comes to consciousness. Rebuking the turmoil that had found its way into the world, and the threats that obfuscated the truth many would not dare to face. Simply for a stolen moment of peace and tranquility not easily afforded in this era. A possible existence once thought lost, forgotten by the demands of duty, but found in the contradictions so often hiding in plain sight. Both longed for and beloved, yet left ignored out of necessity and neglectful distraction.

“Commander,” comes a concerned voice, urging him to refocus his attention from such a pleasant self-reflection to the reality easily concealing something so mundane from the hearts of many. “Are you awake?”

“Mmm,” he hums in response as he reluctantly opens his eyes, only to see the Lieutenant crouched down beside him and watching him attentively.

“It is time to rise,” the young man informs gently. “The day has begun.”

“Very well,” the Commander nods slightly. “Commence preparations.”

“All is attended to, Commander,” he responds with a faint smile. “We are prepared to take our leave of this place at the Lord’s leisure.”

“We?”

“The escort arrived just before dawn,” informs the Lieutenant with a careful nod. “Standard contingent. Yevras: on point.”

“Why wasn’t I informed sooner?”

“Forgive me, Commander,” the young man apologizes, as he absentmindedly reaches up and scratches the back of his right ear. “But, after the commotion of the last few days, I thought rest would be more prudent than promptly reporting.”

“Considering the Lord’s current state and the young lady’s unstable condition, that is.” he clarifies thoughtfully.

“Has the Captain been appraised of our current situation?” the Commander questions further as he reluctantly pushes himself up from his bedroll and readjusts his armor.

“Yes, Commander,” replies the Lieutenant. “His scouts report no notable pursuit at this time.”

“But for how long?” he counters, his voice firm. “Her followers are devoted, not known to abandon duty so quickly.”

“Deploy a small contingent of Captain Yevras’ scouts to fall back and retrace our movements, monitoring for any signs of Inquisition presence in our wake. Send those scouts that remain ahead, to offset any obstructions intending to delay our mission further.”

“Right away, Commander,” the young man nods in confirmation.

Dismissing himself, the Lieutenant turns and heads for the cave entrance and the awaiting group of elite Elvhen warriors still atop their armored mounts outside, without another word. Leaving his superior to tend to his own duties as he saw fit.

Appreciative of the young man’s sense of respect and devotion to their cause, the Commander allows only a nod of understanding in the man’s direction. Before pulling himself from the stone floor completely and readying himself for the journey ahead.

After some time, he eventually turns his attention to their Lord and their new charge. And what he discovers, when his eyes sweep the interior of the holding cave and land on the pair, is a curious sight. When last he had seen them, the two of them had been sitting side by side at a respectful distance against the back wall and chatting quietly. But, after what had been several hours, such a mundane occurrence had turned into something far more interesting than he would have expected. And, in a way, almost comical. Considering the rigid personality of their Lord, and the distance he had always demanded of everyone.

With a gentle smirk, left unhidden, the Commander made his away across the cave feeling amused for the first time in many weeks. Quietly reveling in the fact that he had found Solas in such a compromised position. Himself so unaware, so unguarded, as if this world was as calm and well-ordered as he’d wish. With the war long gone and the true peace finally restored.

“Solas?” the Commander breathes out softly, voice full of reverence, as his hand falls cautiously upon his friend’s shoulder. “Time to rise.”

“Hmm?” his tired voice answers. Silver eyes opening slowly, as consciousness begrudgingly starts to return.

“It’s morning,”

“Already?” he groans softly.

“I’m afraid so, Falon,” the Commander confirms as he carefully looks at his friend. “Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Solas sighs after running a hand down his face. Trying his best to banish the sleepiness clinging to him without regret. “These last few days have been... taxing. After weeks of unrelenting exhaustion, it will be welcomed to simply settle for a time.”

“Status on your recovery?” counters the Commander.

“Functional,” Solas sighs heavily. “But, only to a point.”

“Then we should endeavor to move as swiftly as possible. The sooner we get back to the sanctuary, the sooner you will be safe.”

“Agreed,” nods Solas. “Any news on our escort?”

“Captain Yevras and his men arrived before dawn,” the Commander confirms. “They are at your disposal as you requested.”

“Good.”

The moment quickly goes quiet, a few minutes pass with Solas trying to recover lucidity, and soon the Commander changes the subject to something a little more lighthearted.

“It seems I missed a great deal last night,” he offers, a slight teasing lacing his tone.

“Hmm?”

“It looks as if you made a new friend,” the Commander notes, pointing towards Lyra. Bringing to Solas’ attention that she had fallen asleep with her head resting on his thigh. “In my absence.”

“Possibly,” Solas admits as his eyes fall on the young woman dreaming peacefully. “Only time will tell.”

“Did you learn any more of her?”

“Some, but I fear there is a great deal more behind her appearance here than sheer coincidence,” he admits. “There are quite a few questions bereft of answers. Not only for us but, unfortunately, even for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems that she has run afoul of something far more sinister than we expected and some memory loss accompanies her injuries.”

“How much was lost?” questions the Commander, a scowl appearing on his face as he glanced down at Lyra.

“Four months’ worth.”

“That’s... unfortunate." he sighs.

“Quite unfortunate.” nods Solas.

“Will this affect our timeline?”

“Impossible to say. But, she is worth reconsidering our initial plan.”

“And have you?” the Commander counters worriedly. “Reconsidered?”

“Tentatively, at least for the time being,” nods Solas.

“Then, we are still taking her with us?”

“I gave her my word,” he states flatly. “To go against it would be putting her in danger. Undo all the work and energy sacrificed to save her life. And, thus, I have no choice but to honor my promise.”

“And once you have? What do you intend to do with her?”

“I haven’t decided,” Solas sighs with finality.

“I see. Then, might I suggest that we at least adhere to some semblance of caution? Until we can determine her intentions?”

“You already suspect her.” It was not a question but a statement stated as fact.

“I do,” the Commander confirms with a nod. “As is my right, as the Commander of your Honor Guard.”

“Then,” Solas prompts. “How do you suggest we accommodate Lyra’s inclusion in the rest of our mission? To guarantee our safety? And, hers?”

“Anonymity must be maintained, as before,” the Commander notes thoughtfully. “The secret kept, so...”

“Sedation until we reach the sanctuary.”

“I can accept that,” Solas agrees with a slight nod, after a moment of contemplation. “However...”

“However?”

“If you intend on keeping her unconscious for the remainder of our journey,” Solas notes, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at his friend. “ _Someone_ will have to take responsibility for her care until we arrive.”

“Very well,” the Commander eventually relents. Knowing that to refuse would simply force Solas to make it an order instead. “I will take custody of her and look after her, till we return to the sanctuary.”

“Good,” he retorts as he lifts his hand gracefully and calls upon his magic. With a spin of his wrist and a gentle flick of his fingers, the sleeping spell he summons covers Lyra’s form, lingers for a second, and then vanishes. “Done.”

“How long?”

"At my current strength? Four hours at most. It will need to be reapplied by no later than midday.”

“Understood.” he nods.

A light, yet constant drizzle of cold rain greets them the moment they step out of the holding cave. To an audience of nearly two dozen, heavily armed, soldiers waiting atop their horses. A slender Elvhen with dark hair, the only man to react at their appearance, immediately hands off the reigns of his horse to a soldier standing beside him and crosses the distance. Smiling politely the whole way.

“My Lord,” he greeted reverently, bowing with respect. “Commander.”

“It’s good to see you, Yevras,” Solas nods in recognition at the dark-haired man cloaked in black. “Anything to report?”

“No change since an hour ago,” the Captain confirms, before turning to look at the Commander and noting the sleeping woman cradled in his arms. “And what do we have we here? A consolation prize from the temple, perhaps?”

“An innocent,” coldly comments Solas, an heir of warning prominently tainting his tone. That demands the Captain to tread carefully with his questioning. “Lucky to be alive.”

“I see...” breathes out Yevras, suspicion almost proudly painted across his face, as the Commander subtly flashes him a look that confirms the warning is unanimous. “Will she be joining us?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” the Captain surrenders. Accepting that, as he had always done, there were just some things between the Lord and his Commander that were meant to be relayed on a need-to-know basis. “Then, we should depart. Daylight’s burning.”

“Agreed.” Solas nods sharply, offering no other comment.

They had set out almost immediately after their quick consult with Captain Yevras. With a limited group of Yevras and his men taking point and the remaining soldiers encircling Solas, the Lieutenant, Lady Lyra, and their Commander on all sides. A protection detail, in every sense of the word. A full contingent determined to ensure that the leaders of their cause made it safely back to their well-fortified and secluded sanctuary. Near the edge of the great lake in the Green Dales –left hidden in plain sight.

Taking his commitment seriously, the Commander did his best to see to it that Lyra would remain safe. Electing to keep her with him as they traveled, by keeping her close.

The moment had been awkward first. After requiring assistance to hoist her onto his saddle, there came a moment of insecurity as she was settled against him that he had not expected. The closeness such protection required was not something he was, at all, comfortable with or as commonplace for a man of his honor and status that one would ever believe. To be coerced into such a situation; no matter the circumstances would have been considered beneath him. By many who merely followed rather than led. And, seen as a task fit for someone with less prestige and authority. Rather than a man, whose most intimate emotional reactions demanded obedience and unflinching loyalty without question.

Yet, he understood the importance of her protection. Why his closest friend and Lord, needed her to remain safe and why he had trusted him to see to it personally.

_The whims of the Gods are often fraught with peculiarities masked in curious intent and speculative possibilities._ He reminded himself. _And, Solas is no exception._

_He does nothing without careful contemplation. Makes no decision without deliberation and reacts according to his own knowledge and the probabilities based on his vast experience._

_But he is just as flawed as any mortal. Blinded by the influence of wisdom’s innate curiosity, and prideful obstinacy, that he cannot ignore the pull of its inclination to seek out the unknown –no matter how much such endeavors can be a danger._

But, that was just part and parcel of the man he had chosen to follow when his former duty was taken from him.

In the next few hours, the rain provides a constant source of mild discomfort. Not intensifying yet refusing to let up, as most of them would have hoped. An insistent and chilling reminder that the weather would soon turn bitter with winter winds and snows. Foretelling another difficult season accompanied by more unavoidable conflict and suffering. Tragedy and death, and a sorrow shared by all.

An involuntary shiver creeps across his shoulders, as a crisp breeze drifts through the autumn foliage around him. Demanding his attention as he tugs his cloak closer to himself and the woman quietly sleeping in his arms. As his mount carefully maneuvers over a washed-out rutted section of the unused, narrow trail before him and knickers in dissatisfaction. The forest is quiet, almost too quiet. The only accompany sound, the steps of battle-ready war horses on alert all around him. Their rider’s poised for any eventuality. Their heads on a swivel. Ready to react at a moment’s notice.

The forest is an uncertainty, indefensible even with such a sizable contingent, should another ambush lay in wait.

Glancing at the fore, the Commander makes a mental note of Solas’ location. A sense of concern and worry drawing him to do so, as a memory of a few days ago makes a point to cross his mind. Forewarning him of such possibilities. That recent history could repeat itself, again, and bring even more danger to their Lord than before.

His weakness was unusual. Drained and recuperating slowly. Far more slowly than he should.

The ambush had taken much from him. He would not easily survive another one.

And then, there was the young lady. She was weak. Silenced and blinded. And, bound.

What would become of her if the worst were to happen? Would their enemies take pity? Or would they assume her capitulation to Solas’ cause and execute her simply by association? Making her another senseless casualty of a war born from a fundamental yet rectifiable misunderstanding.

_She deserves to have a fighting chance._ He decides. _If and when the time comes._

Passing the edge of his cloak to the hand holding onto his mount’s reigns, the Commander quietly reaches down to his hip. Collecting the thin-bladed dagger from its leather sheath, always resting within reach. Making sure not to injure her any further, he gently lifts his hand and slips the blade between her bonds. Before running the blade through the rope and setting her wrists free.

It is a gamble, he knows, but he would not condemn her to a fate unbeknownst to her. When there is so much worse that could come to bear, in this harsh world, to those left in the dark and caught unaware.

With an accepting sigh, the Commander carefully slips the blade back into his place without another thought and returns his posture to where it was before. His left arm wrapped around her back, supporting her shoulders and head, and holding the reigns. As his right hand reacquires the edge of his cloak and pulls it tightly around her form once more.

“There’s a sharp drop here,” Captain Yevras announces in a hushed tone. Coming to a large washout in the trail that slopes downward drastically. “Tread carefully.”

The warning echoes quietly through them all, passing from one soldier to the next. Disseminating the danger efficiently, notifying all involved.

By the time the Commander reaches the washout, half a dozen of the Captain’s men and Solas have traversed to the other side. Leaving behind several different trails of hoof prints in their wake. For a moment, he pauses. Taking in the marks with a discerning eye. Before deciding the safest decent for both his horse and its riders and spurring the animal gently. For a moment his horse hesitates, obviously sensing the danger itself.

“It will be alright, da’len,” the Commander urges in understanding. Releasing the edge of his cloak to pat the beast on the neck reassuringly. “Just take your time. We are in no rush.”

The horse immediately knickers, shaking his head as if he disagreed.

“Slowly, da’len,” he reassures softly. Tightening the reigns ever-so-slightly as he collects the edge of his cloak once more. “Have faith in yourself, and we will surely make it safely to the other side.”

After another pregnant pause, the beast relents. Allowing the Commander to pull the reigns carefully to the left and guide him down the slope.

The descent is slow. His mount both wary and cautious of every step it takes. Protective of its own safety, and of its passengers, as any well-trained warhorse worth their salt would be in such a situation. He does his best to offer more encouraging words. Falling into the lyrical litany of praise spoken in Elvhen. All in hopes to assuage his most loyal mount of its worries and fears.

Suddenly, a misstep befalls them. The horse’s hind legs slip. Sending them rushing to the bottom of the washout unexpectedly. His mount quickly compensates. Hurrying to catch up with its own momentum and stabilize their descent before it’s too late.

They hit the bottom of the washout hard. Jostling the lot harshly.

Consciousness instantly slams into Lyra. Snatching her from her slumber so abruptly that her body reacts in panic. Leaving the Commander only seconds to react before she inadvertently flings herself from the saddle.

“Easy, Lethalan,” he commands. His voice stern. Yet laced with a sliver of understanding, as he immediately tightens his arms around her and pulls her close. Hoping to bring stillness as her hands jump to clutch at the front of his breastplate. “You’re safe.”

Lyra’s attention snaps to him in that very second. Seemingly surprised to hear a familiar voice.

“It’s alright,” he reassures, tightening his grip just a little bit more. “Just a quick misstep.”

“Are you well, Commander?” Solas’ voice echoes from the other side of the embankment.

“We are well, my Lord. Just a bit of fright.”

“Be more careful next time.”

“We will,” nods the Commander as he feels Lyra seemingly relax in his arms.

“Are you hurt?” he questions gently, turning to look at her. “In any pain?”

She answers with nothing more than a shake of the head.

“Good,” the Commander replies. “I apologize for the rude awakening. The trail is more treacherous than before. The rain’s offering no help.”

“Hold tight,” he adds, spurring his mount once more and guiding him towards the safer incline leading to the other side. “We’re almost back on solid ground.”

Lyra nods in understanding and leans close. Tightening her grip on his armor.

The accent is quicker. His horse forcing itself up the embankment with a harsher pace. Determined to return to more level ground as fast as possible. In a matter of seconds, they are finally back on the trail, and the movements of his horse settle into its normal cantor. As if nothing had gone awry.

“There,” the Commander breathes out. “Safe and sound.”

Lyra visibly relaxes at his words, letting out a relieved sigh.

For a few moments, the space between them goes still and then Lyra seems to notice her current situation and lifts her hand. A flicker of surprise scatters across her face, at that moment. The realization that her hands are no longer bound the most likely reason. She immediately lets out a sigh and gives a quick sign. The Commander misses it at first but does not miss it the second time when she raises her hand a little higher and repeats the gesture. He immediately glances up and makes a mental note that both Solas and the Lieutenant are too far ahead to have seen her motions.

“Ir abelas, Lethallan,” he breathes out in Elvhen, before switching to the common tongue. “I’m afraid I do not understand Hunter’s Sign.”

Lyra instantly sighs, heavily, in obvious frustration. Jerking her hand back down into her lap.

“Apologies,” he offers again, frowning slightly.

For a few minutes, breathing softly into the chilled air around them, Lyra settles. Offering no other motion or gestures. Seemingly contemplating her situation and accepting that she would be unable to communicate. Until he feels her move again. Instantly her hand reaches out to his arm. Falling upon the Silverite vambrace upon his forearm quickly, before traveling down toward his hand clasping the edge of his cloak around her. Without explanation, she lets her hand run past his and grabs the cloak. Pulling it from his grasp and tucking it underneath her.

“Are you cold?” the Commander questions.

Lyra nods as she reaches out and goes for his vambrace again. This time stopping at his wrist, grabbing it gently, and pulling it before her. Allowing the curious movement, the Commander watches her. Wondering what she is thinking. When it is finally settled before her, she stretches out one finger, taps the back of his hand to get his attention. He immediately hums in confirmation. Letting her know he's paying attention. She smiles and carefully twists his wrist. Turning it over to reveal his palm.

“Lethallan,” he interjects softly.

But Lyra ignores him and settles the back of his hand on her thigh. Letting out a gentle breath in unknown understanding. And, before the Commander can question her about what she is up to, she places her fingertip onto his palm and draws a pattern.

The recognition of her intent is instant.

“Repeat it,” he tells her, and she does.

_Where?_

“We are few hours out,” the Commander replies. “From our resting place. Half a day from our encampment.”

_And, Pride?_ She questions.

“Ahead of us. Leading by example, as always.”

_Better?_

“Yes, he is feeling better,” her answers. “But –.”

_Still weak?_

“Yes,” he sighs.

_In danger?_

“We are always in danger, Lethallan,” the Commander sighs sadly. “That is the nature of war, after all.”

She nods in agreement, offering no argument, and tries to draw another word on his palm. Only to be interrupted by a quick sidestep of his horse at it avoids a branch upon the trail.

“Try again,” the Commander requests once the horse settles again.

Letting out a sigh, Lyra reaches up with her other hand and pats the Commander’s breastplate above his heart. Then draws upon the skin of his palm once more.

_Name?_

“I am called Abelas,” he answers with a slight chuckle.

An almost delighted smile instantly overtakes her face in that very instant and she immediately turns toward him. Her movements and reactions surprise him. But, not as much as what happens next. Entertaining no restraint, she simply reaches up and touches his face as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Shocking him with her boldness. For a quick second, her hand lingers pressed again his cheek and then it suddenly begins to rise. Eventually settling on his forehead before it is lifted and she presses one finger to the ink etched into his skin with a curious look.

Abelas immediately chuckles at the lengths she had gone to ask such a simple question.

“Mythal,” he replies with a smile.

Lyra’s smile quickly returns as she pulls her hand from his face and places it gently over her heart. Offering him a slight bow.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, as well,” Abelas answers cordially. “Lady Lyra.”

Immediately shaking her head at his words, she reaches for his hand again.

_Not lady._ She corrects upon his palm. _Just Lyra. Please._

“Very well,” he nods. “If you insist...Lyra.”

Seemingly pleased by his response, Lyra leans back against his arms and offers him another smile. Content in capitulation to her request as Abelas returns his attention to the path before them for a time.

_Sorrow?_ She inscribes on his palm a little time later.

“Yes,”

_My eyes._ She starts slowly, drawing each word letter by letter. _Will they be alright?_

“Of that, I have no doubt,” he answers. “Between Solas and myself, we will be able to restore your eyesight once we’ve resupplied. And have had adequate uninterrupted rest.”

_Are you sure?_

“I am,” he nods.

“Have you remembered anything else, since last night?” he questions after a few minutes pass in silence.

Mina shakes her head, reaching for his hand again.

_Pride...told you?_

“He did,” Abelas nods. “Does that bother you?”

_No. Not really._

_You protect him, don’t you?_

“I do,”

_Friends?_

“For far longer than I care to admit.”

_Good person?_

“Misunderstood by many, but yes. He is a good person at heart.”

Lyra instantly shakes her head dismissively and reaches up to pat his breastplate again.

_You._ Her finger spells out as she offers him another smile. _Are a good person._

“You seem so sure of that,” he chuckles. A little caught off guard by her assumption.

_You are._

“And what made you come to that conclusion, hmm?”

_There is no hesitation in your voice._ She answers, drawing each word slowly to make sure her point is made. _No lie in your words._

_Pride, however, hides much._

“As is his nature,” he sighs.

_Can I trust him?_

_Do you think I should?_

“You already know where my allegiance lies, Lyra,” Abelas sighs heavily. Slightly disturbed that she would ask him for such advice, knowing of his friendship with Solas. “You know there is no answer I could give that would be considered devoid of bias or free from suspicion.”

_I know._ She answers, letting out a faint sigh. _But give me something_.

_I am putting a lot on faith, here._

“And your faith is waning,”

_Yes._

“Very well,” he relents. “If you are requesting a suggestion on how to keep your acquaintance cordial...”

Lyra instantly nods.

“Then I would suggest transparency,” he answers. “To lie to the Dread Wolf is to invite tragedy. You must know this. So, it would be best if you were as honest with him as you can be and not keep anything from him.”

_I am not keeping anything from him. She_ responds, pressing her fingertip into his palm with a little more force. _Or, you._

“Then you have nothing to fear, Lyra.”

“The Wolf’s reputation, while sometimes justified, is not the entirety of the man. He understands honor, respect, honesty, and determination. And holds them in high regard. So long as you show respect to him and do not attempt to interfere with his cause, you have no reason to worry.”

“He will not harm you and neither will I.”

_Unless I become a problem. I understand._

“Good,” nods Abelas.

“You should get some more rest,” he advises a little time later. “We still have hours of travel, and you have yet to recover your strength fully.”

_I am not sleepy._ She draws upon his palm.

“Stubbornness,” he answers knowingly, having noticed how she has slowly begun to relax more and more in his arms over time. “Is not very becoming, Lyra. I can sense the tiredness growing in your posture.”

_My body is tired._ She admits reluctantly, letting out a slightly frustrated sigh. _But my mind won't stop._

_I’m worried._

“For yourself, your safety?”

Lyra nods.

“Fear not,” he replies with a smile. “I will protect you. While you sleep as I have already done.”

“If you will accept it,” Abelas offers in understanding. His mind quietly reminding him of his and Solas’ agreement earlier this morning. “I know a spell that will help you sleep.”

_Will you still be here, when I wake up?_

“I give you my word, Lyra,” he answers, squeezing her hand in reassurance. “I won’t leave your side.”

_Ok._ She nods.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and his group finally manage to make it to their sanctuary. Only to find that the trip has had some unforeseen consequences. Lyra is suddenly near death, barely hanging on, and it will take the entirety of their strength just to give her a fighting chance. Enlisting the help of Orinth, one of their strongest healers, they do all they can to save her. And are forced to come to terms with what they must now come to face, and what must come next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: Chapter Live Date (10/14/2020) Word Count: 5000+

Under rustic, twilight skies, the caress of a mutable catharsis gently envelopes his heart. At the precise moment, the resolute, ancient walls of their private sanctuary offer themselves to their eyes. Bringing elation and comfort where concern and uncertainty once reigned. And promising salvation amongst damnation and cruel intentions lofted from every direction. 

It is a welcomed sight. A place that Abelas had not envisioned he would ever see anew, after the devastating disaster that was their encroachment into the long-lost temple and what has happened since. It had been luck, truly. A gift from the fates, that ensured their survival. But it had not come without great cost. Six men dead. Hastily left to rot on open ground without absolution. All for the sake of the greater good. The continuation of their noble ideal and the exaltation of those forced to suffer the cruelty of the low. Demanding both limb and life, magic and waning strength, all in hopes to bring forth the rebirth of a world once loved now lost.

A light flurry of activity greets them the moment they pass through the iron gates of their stronghold. Guards stand at attention and salute the return of their leaders. Hostlers and pages rush from their rough-hewed stables to tend to their tired and travel-worn charges. While a silent revelry of relief can be seen on the faces of all that call such a place home.

“My Lord,” bows the sanctuary’s elderly steward. A man born with the unexpected gifts of both undeniable intelligence and unequaled patience. Intercepting them both well before they can even dismount. “Welcome home.”

“Viran,” Solas nods in acknowledgment.

From atop his horse, Abelas watches the Wolf slide from his saddle and hand off the reigns to a young lad, barely ten years of age. Transitioning from a modest traveler to that of the Lord, they have always known, in an instant. He shifts the conversation fluidly from greetings to business. Asking of the Steward a shallow update on their current situation.

“All is well,” Viran answers politely. “No complications or contradictions, that press.”

As their impromptu meeting falls into a hushed conversation, reassuring that there has not been a development that may constitute a threat, Abelas pulls his eyes from his friend. And refocuses his attention to the woman still sleeping in his arms. It has been more than six hours since he had assisted her into a peaceful slumber. Preserving that which needed to remain secret. But now that they had finally stepped into the safety they’d sought, anonymity was no longer needed to be had. Calling upon his magic, he reaches up and casts a nullifying spell to negate the sedation once offered respectfully.

“Lyra?” he calls out gently as the spell fades. “We’ve arrived. It’s time to rise.”

A bitter wind, birthed from somewhere unknown, instantly brushes across his shoulders as he utters those words. Summoning, with it, a chill that forces his unsuspecting mind to bristle with uneasiness. Foreboding and contrite, as if foretelling a haunting regret unknown to him. A warning, spoken softly. Brought to the foray only because it must be, and whispering a suspicious secret somehow lost to him.

“Lyra?” Abelas questions again.

Concern washes over him when nothing but silence answers back. When there is not even a flicker of movement at his words. Turning quickly to fear the more the seconds pass by. Until he can no longer wait for a confirmation ungiven by anyone but by his own hand. Reaching up, he gently pulls back the folds of the dark green cloak they had wrapped around her before they had begun the day. Along with the edge of his own that had safeguarded her from the cold and the still-falling rain. Looking at her with a discerning eye.

“Lyra?” he tries once more, pushing back her hood to observe her face. Only to see something so disconcerting that his heart nearly jolts to a complete stop.

She is pale. Her breaths are slow and soft. Yet, shallow. Whispering signs of a distress unknown. Offering no comfort. Where no recognition can be granted or found.

“What’s the matter?” interrupts Solas gently.

“I don’t know, Falon,” he replies. His worry creasing his brow, as he looks over to see their Lord suddenly standing next to his horse and observing him from below. “Something is wrong. She does not answer. She will not wake.”

“Hand her to me,” Solas replies, reaching for her as a flash of concern flickers across his face. “Quickly!”

The near desperation lingering in Solas’ tone speaks prominently to the possible tragedy looming just beyond thought. Without hesitation, he complies. Shifting her weight on the saddle and maneuvering her unconscious form so as to lower her down into Solas’ arms as gingerly as he can. As her full weight settles in his arms, his friend allows himself to crouch. Lowering her down to the ground below. Freeing his left hand so that he may ascertain her condition.

“What is it?” questions Abelas, after dismounting his horse the moment Solas took Lyra’s unconscious form from his arms. “What has happened?”

Solas instantly notices the paleness of her skin. Sweat peppers her forehead and pools in the hollow of her throat. Just below her soaked bandages protecting the wound gifted by an unknown. Now darkened around the edges. As are the corners of her mouth, drawn down ever so slightly.

Fearing the worst he immediately reaches up, presses the back of his finger upon her forehead, and frowns deeply instantaneously. She is cold, bitterly so, and clammy. As if the distinct air around them had seeped so deep into her bones and all liveliness has been smothered forever in the shortest of heartbeats.

A slight gasp crosses his lips at such a thought. Spurring haste in his movements. With a shift of his wrist and a draw of his arm, he lowers his hand down to just below the delicate curve of her ear. And skillfully presses against her skin gently. Testing the pressure pulsing just below her skin. Only to find that the deep, rhythmic beats that should be lingering there have dangerously slowed to the point that utter weakness remains.

Solas conveys his findings as he notes them. Trying his best to compare everything he is witnessing with his vast knowledge of ailments and infirmities. His mind racing with possibilities. Each given a voice, softly spoken, as a modest crowd of soldiers and servants begin to gather. In hopes of understanding the isolated commotion unexpectedly building in the middle of the sanctuary’s courtyard.

“Falon?” demands Abelas with a harsh whisper.

“Assist me, Abelas,” Solas directly requests. Looking up at his Commander for the first time since he had taken the woman from his arms and sounding almost desperate in his tone. “We need to get her inside. Someplace warm and dry.”

“Take her,” he reiterates with a quick motion of his shoulders mimicking his request.

And, Abelas does not hesitate. Slipping his arms under her knees and around her back, he hoists her from the soaked earth beneath them carefully. As he comes to his full height, Solas instantly turns and addresses the steward.

“Retrieve Orinth from the apothecary and deliver him to the head residence, immediately. We will need his aid and his medicinals. Potions, antidotes, antitoxins, elixirs, herbs... Fresh bandages and as many Lyrium potions as he can carry.”

“Right away, Milord,” replies Viran hastily. Offering only a quick bow, before swiftly turning on his heels and darting off in the direction of the healer’s quiet little hut.

But Solas shows the Steward no more attention than was ever necessary. Directing his gaze back to Abelas and hastening him along.

“Follow me, quickly.”

Earthen stairs of stone and cured brick scale the nearest hill, leading to a once-abandoned longhouse now used as the prime residence for those in the position of leadership. The trek is relatively short, and before too long they are stepping into the disquieting silence of the main hall. Aside from two elderly servants manning the hearth, the room is empty. Free of distraction and offering no deterrent to their intentions. Without a word, Solas makes for the side hall leading to the residence wing. Where their private rooms reside. And Abelas follows, his gaze constantly flitting back and forth from the path before him and the woman in his arms. In a matter of minutes, a door opens. Revealing a solitary spare room long-since bereft of any occupant. But it is clean and dutifully prepared for visitors.

“Remove her cloak,” Solas commands gently as he reaches for the tie of his own cloak. Tugging it loose before tossing the soaked-through fabric in a nearby chair. “And place her on the bed.”

“My Lord?” a questioning, gravely female voice suddenly echoes from the door.

“Ah, Gemma. There you are," Solas notes offhandedly. Clearing the distance to assist Abelas in putting Lyra to bed without offering the woman a second glance. “Bring us some warm dress for the lady and extra blankets. Boil some water for cleansing wounds. And, have the kitchen prepare a bland broth as well.”

“Right away, Milord,” the older Elvhen woman acknowledges. Disappearing out of the room with a sudden turn the exact moment his orders are conveyed fully.

“What is wrong with her, Falon?” Abelas insists the moment they have Lyra settled.

“Infection,” Solas states flatly, an anxious look upon his face as he grasps the edge of the blanket from the end of the bed and pulls it over her. “Marrow poisoning to be specific.”

“Marrow poisoning? From the broken bones?” counters Abelas, wishing for clarification.

“Yes,” his friend nods.

“Then shouldn’t she be suffering from a severe fever?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes,” Solas replies. “But with the constant cold and rain, we’ve been forced to endure, her body temperature has been depressed. For so long, that the infection has surpassed the initial rise in body temperature. Turning inward.”

“What does that mean?”

“That she’s going to perish,” came a deep, stormy voice from the doorway as an older Elvhen mage steps over the threshold. Dressed in dark green robes. A large leather satchel, thrown over one shoulder. And carrying a wooden crate in his arms. “If we do not intervene, and soon.”

“Brother Orinth,” Abelas immediately nods at the man. Watching him as he hurries, with a determined stride, to the opposite side of the bed and puts down his equipment.

“How long?” the old man questions, sitting down and reaching to feel Lyra’s forehead. Getting to work without hesitation.

“Unknown,” Solas replies worriedly.

“Last moment of lucidity?” Orinth counters, shifting his hand to check her pulse just under her right ear.

“Just after midday, today,” Abelas answers. “Awakened for about an hour before she fell back asleep.”

“On her own or by magic?” the old man counters again as he reaches down further and inspects the skin darkening just below the bandages around her throat.

“Magic,” Abelas answers.

“Hers or yours?”

“Mine,” Abelas nods, before clarifying. “With her consent.”

“What was her condition during lucidity?”

“Tired but talkative,” he replies, glancing up at Solas just in time to mark the man arching an inquisitive brow in his direction. Silently questioning why he had yet to be told.

“Talkative?” counters Orinth, turning his attention towards Abelas with a curious look. “And how was that possible?”

“She speaks Hunter’s Sign,” replies Solas.

“Interesting,” Orinth notes with a slight tilt of the head. Looking perplexed, he simply shakes his head, bends over, and begins rummaging through his pack. “How badly was she injured when you discovered her?”

“Horrifically so,” Abelas sighs, scowling harshly.

“Be specific,”

“Dual shoulder dislocations,” Solas methodically begins explaining, bypassing any details not relevant for the moment. “And broken collar bones. Broken right wrist. Six shattered ribs: four on the right, two on the left. Cracked right pelvis. A fractured leg, lower left. Numerous lacerations. Bruising: covering nearly two-thirds of her lower body and chest. Both eyes: Damaged, swollen, and infected. A deep laceration on the right side of her throat. Damaging the vocal cords. And internal bleeding.”

“Merciful fates,” the old man breathes out in disbelief. “And you were able to repair all that?”

“Most of it. But it was close, numerous times. We were forced to use much of our reserves and the majority of our remaining supplies, just to get her stable,” Solas answers with a nod. “Eyes, throat, three ribs: now only fractured, and the bruising... are the only injuries that still remain.”

“It was a tough call. What to prioritize,” Abelas adds softly. “She was barely hanging on when we encountered her. Survivability, uncertain.”

“It didn’t look good.” he sighs wearily.

“In that, I have no doubt Commander,” nods the old man as he pulls three vials filled with a silver-looking liquid from his pack and straightens up. “Considering the extent of her injuries, it was a miracle you managed to keep her alive long enough to undo so much damage. Tis a testament to your strength, the both of you. And hers. For certain.”

“How long did it take to get her stabilized?” he continues.

“Sixteen hours,” Solas replies tiredly.

“So she was the cause of your delay, to return, of more than a day?”

“As well as the request for the escort,” Solas nods. “Yes.”

“I see.” the old man sighs.

“Will you be able to aid her, Orinth?” counters Solas worriedly.

“Be unafraid, Milord,” he reassures, forcing a slight smile. “She is not too far gone for my help to be of no use. I assure you. Give me a few days, and she will be solidly on the path. One way or another.”

“What do you require of us?” questions Abelas.

“There are nearly a dozen Lyrium potions in the crate,” he states matter-of-factly. “Utilize them. We will need to raise her body temperature while counteracting the infection and safeguarding any degradation of her internal functions.”

“Assignments?” Solas questions for clarification, bending down to retrieve two Lyrium potions from the crate.

“Commander,” Orinth orders with a slight ting of urgency in his voice, as he uncorks one of the vials and forces its contents past Lyra’s lips. “You work on bringing her body temperature back to normal. But, do it slowly. So as not to overstress her heart. Milord, you should focus on stabilizing and maintaining her internal function. While I work to exorcise the infection and disperse any foreign influence within her blood.”

Deep into the night, without a sliver of rest, the three most exceptional healers of current Elvhen legend work tirelessly to secure the life of another. Downing potion after potion. Casting and manipulating the magic of the Fade. Bending its purpose to their will. All in hopes of saving a woman they barely knew. Yet, had deemed worthy of their efforts.

And just before the first rays of dawn’s morning light crests the horizon, the act of attrition is named. By Orinth’s own admission. Declaring, with morose finality, that there is nothing more than can be done for the unconscious woman before them. At least, for now. The old man’s statement does not go over well with both Solas and Abelas –who are quick to protest. Claiming they can continue. But, Orinth will have none of it. Stating firmly, that any more consumption of Lyrium by any of them could open the door to self-inflicted poisoning.

“In this, I am afraid, I must insist,” the old man reiterates, looking far more drained than either Abelas or Solas had ever seen him.

“But,” argues Abelas.

“I am sorry, Commander,” interrupts Orinth, waving away Abelas' protests. “But, at this point, we have no choice. Any more and it will be us lying in bed unable to move and fighting for our lives.”

“But do not be discouraged,” he adds. Hoping to assuage any fears their leaders may have. “The infection has been contained and treated. Now that she is stable and her temperature has normalized, her body’s natural functions should render what remains moot within the upcoming days.”

“ _Should_?” Abelas counters.

“More likely than not,” the old man clarifies. “But we should provide a dedicated eye on her until we can be more certain. It is uncommon for someone to regress after enduring such treatment, but it’s not impossible. The next two days will be crucial in her recovery.”

“What do you suggest?” Solas tiredly inquires.

“Sleep for the lot of us,” he states bluntly. “The longer the better.”

“Especially for the two of you,” Orinth adds. “You look as if you've not slept in weeks.”

“We haven’t,” Solas admits with a dismissive shake of the head. “At least not long enough to completely recover.”

“Life on the roads, this day and age, is becoming more and more difficult.” the old man nods in understanding. “Even for our kind.”

“Go get some rest,” Orinth orders respectfully. “I will see to assigning one of my apprentices to watch over her in the interim. So I may retire as well.”

“I’ll stay,” states Abelas firmly.

“You need to sleep,” counters Solas, in full agreement with Orinth.

“I will, but here.” the Commander clarifies, motioning to the room around them. “Within sight.”

“You,” Solas tries to counter.

“I gave her my word, Falon,” Abelas immediately interrupts, shaking his head to dismiss any argument from his Lord. “That I would be here when she awoke.”

“And, I intend to keep it.”

“Very well,” Solas sighs tiredly. “But you must sleep. Understood?”

“I will,”

“It’s settled then,” nods Orinth in understanding as he lifts his hand and motions toward the door. “Off you go, Milord.”

Without any more argument, Solas departs. His destination, his own quarters just down the hall. Orinth follows him, but only just. Stopping at the door to confer with one of the guards that had followed the lot of them into the longhouse after their arrival.

“You there.”

“Yes, Brother Orinth?” the taller of the two guards answers.

“Wake Saven and bring him to me,” he orders. “And tell Gemma to bring some extra bed linens for the Commander. He will be staying with the young lady for the time being, for self-security reasons.”

“Right away, Brother,” the guard quickly salutes.

As he takes his leave to do his duty, Orinth turns back to Abelas. Making an almost grand motion toward the long chaise tucked into the corner of the room near the hearth, before closing the door. Ordering him to bed without having to utter a single word. And, for once, Abelas does not argue. Feeling far too tired to even try.

He does not know how long he sleeps. Slipping into unconsciousness without the wish for any agency, a need to implore his will. Flowing needlessly and uncaringly with the tides of the Fade and its own intent. Free of cause or determination directing his mind for any purpose.

The darkness of the nothingness of unenforced will is welcoming. Allowing the carefree exaltation of simple existence left in the dreaming. The relinquishment of consideration. Of all that may impose demands of him. Giving him no choice nor forcing one. All to offer the peace of mind rarely gifted or allowed. Wholly because it must. Because it is needed. And wanted.

From deep within such oblivion, he hears nothing. Sees nothing. Feels nothing, but the harmony of neutrality. Unyielding and comforting, granting a complacency all too often denied. It is wondrous. Glorious. Enlightening, far more than any apocryphal revelation. Desired above all others. And more welcome than any grace that could ever be rewarded by divinity.

But such an existence can only be temporary. A reality that he cannot avoid. Left lamenting its loss, as his mind finds consciousness far too soon. In the glow of the firelight of a low-burning hearth, Abelas opens his eyes and releases a deep sigh. Accepting the fact that such an existence will have to wait as it always must. Left for another time. Another place, where the bridge between peace and harmony has returned. And permission to traverse it, heedlessly, is unneeded.

Without a word, without forceful intent, he gently rises from the relative comfort of the chaise. Taking only a moment to run his hand down his face. In hopes of chasing away the lingering cobwebs from his mind and refocusing on the here and now, once more.

“Welcome back, Commander,” greets Orinth from the other side of the room. His voice somewhat jovial considering what has transpired within recent memory. As he stands from behind the ornate oak desk where he had been sitting. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I would have expected. But, yes,” answers Abelas with a slight nod.

“How do you feel?” counters the old man. Crossing the room to the hearth and reaching for a metal tankard, left sitting upon the mantle. “Any discomfort? Pain?”

“My limbs feel a bit heavy,” Abelas replies honestly. “Grogginess, lethargy, dull pain behind the temples.”

“Lyrium withdrawal,” Orinth diagnoses with a knowing nod. Bending down, retrieving the steaming kettle left heating by the fire, he pours some of its contents into the tankard. “It’s to be expected. After the other day.”

“ _Other day_?” counters Abelas, suddenly uneasy. “How long was I out?”

“Quite a while. Nearly two days.”

“Two days?” he balks. “Really?”

“I’m afraid so.” the old man sighs.

“Here,” he offers a moment later, appearing beside Abelas without him realizing Orinth had come to him. “Drink this. It will help.”

Taking a sip, Abelas immediately notes the taste of Elfroot, Moonglade orchid, Murkwood bark, and plenty of Fox Mint in the decoction. Along with a hint of the recognizable thrum of Lyrium.

“Just enough to wean the withdrawal,” explains Orinth, the second Abelas notices and looks up at the old man with a questioning look. “Trust me, it is needed.”

“What about Solas? Is he–?”

“Resting,”

“Still?” Abelas retorts, in slight disbelief.

“Still,” nods Orinth. “And ultimately by force, unfortunately. He refused to rest properly. Too focused on other matters to tend to his own needs. I had no choice but to sedate him.”

“Sedatives are dangerous for him. You must know that.” Abelas counters, leveling a warning look. Yet, silently, understanding said course of action. Solas had perpetually been a persistent one, more times than not. Never one to concede easily, or self-reflect when it was demanded of him.

“I am well aware,” nods Orinth. “Which is why he is being watched by Saven and Gemma. And being tended to dutifully.”

Accepting his explanation, and with an unspoken understanding, Abelas simply nods and takes another sip. Allowing the warmth of the herbal remedy to soothe the dryness of his throat and thaw the chill in his bones ever so slightly. Within minutes, he can already feel the cure working. Lightening the feeling of being pulled down that had greeted him in wakefulness and clearing his mind. Allowing his thoughts to turn to a renewed purpose.

“How is she?” Abelas questions, looking at Lyra. Silently sleeping in the bed across the room.

“Better,” nods Orinth, returning to the desk and sitting back down. “Recovering, but slowly.”

“Any regression?”

“None,” the old man confirms. “Her fever has not returned, and the infection is beginning to dissipate as expected. Heart rate. Breathing. Temperature. All normal.”

“But her magic is another story,” he sighs heavily. “It is extremely weak, nearly nonexistent, and struggling to reform.”

“Magebane,” Abelas frowns. “Copious amounts, given under force, from what we can tell.”

“And do we know why?”

“Not yet,”

“Brother,” Orinth softly demands, sounding displeased as he reaches up and massages his temple. “I think it’s about time you report what’s going on here –in detail. Who is this woman? Why is she here? And what, in Mythal’s name, happened to her?”

“We don’t completely know,” Abelas began, releasing a profoundly disappointed sigh.

“Then, tell me what you do know,” counters the old man.

Gradually, Abelas relives the events of the last few days. Starting with the pursuit after the ambush and ending with the necessity to pause at the holding caves because of Lyra. Breaking down the timeline of when they had found her, what they had done to save her, and finally what they had managed to learn when she eventually awoke. Retelling the story that she had offered to Solas that night, what she still remembered, and what she no longer could. Making sure to include some speculations of his own. Along with his suspicions.

“Interesting,” hums Orinth after Abelas falls silent. “Do you believe her?”

“Her story, I mean,” he clarifies. “Do you think that, in at least that, she is being truthful? That her words are being given in good faith?”

“She seems genuine,” answers Abelas with a slight nod in agreement. “Her confusion and fear are palpable. As is her suspicion of our intentions. She speaks freely. Openly. Without much hesitation.”

“She is earnest in her wish to try and comprehend what has become of her. And why.”

“But you suspect her as well.”

“I do,” Abelas admits. “Far too much has been left to uncertainty, to trust her completely. And so quickly.”

“Until we can find some understanding behind her current situation, it would be best to proceed with caution,” he adds knowingly. “Especially considering the events of the last few days.”

“We still don’t even know how the Inquisition got wind of our operation at the temple. Or why they were dispatched. Let alone what orders they were given.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” counters Orinth, raising a nearly incredulous eyebrow. “Kill or capture the wolf, at all cost.”

“We don’t know that for certain.” Abelas dismisses with a wave of his hand. “We’re not even entirely sure if the attack was under official orders, or not. It is possible that the men, we encountered there, were not following any official mandate from the Inquisition. They could have been acting on their own, without sanction.”

“An attack of opportunity, then?” questions the old man, leaning forwards over the desk a little.

“It’s possible,” nods Abelas.

“What makes you think that?”

“We were at the temple for several days. Dealing with the corrupted spirit infestation, and searching for the relic, took time. ” Abelas informs carefully. “If the Inquisition was aware of our intentions, I am certain we wouldn’t have had the time that we did. They would have come for us the moment we arrived. If nothing more than to stop us from retrieving the relic.”

“It's even possible they simply stumbled upon us and reacted accordingly. The size of their contingent leads credence to this. It was a relatively small but well-armed force. But their attack lacked nuance and coordination. Coming to the fore just as we set out to return here.”

“Which would make the entire confrontation more akin to a coincidence than a calculated and well-timed attack?” questions Orinth for clarification. “Is that really possible? Given their determination to end our mission?”

“Impossible to say, for certain. But, we were caught off guard. Not expecting interference that deep in the mountains. Or the likelihood of Inquisition presence.”

“We could have defended. Engaged them properly and survived. But we were outnumbered and Solas didn’t want to take the risk. Adamant that we should flee and take no life.”

“ _Leave no evidence of our appearance_ , he had said _. Allow them no proof that could reveal our purpose or give her reason to press farther north._ ”

“And, did you? Flee rather than fight?” counters Orinth worriedly.

“Yes, and our men paid the price. They were cut down one by one, trying to buy us some time to get away.”

“You just left them there?” the old man barks incredulously.

“We had no choice,” Abelas sighs mournfully. “At the time. But worry not. They bore no markings, naming them as ours. So the secret has been preserved.”

“That’s not the point, Abelas,” Orinth argues.

“I know. But, it needed to be said. As for the bodies, Yevras has already set out to retrieve them. If, at all, possible.”

“And if not?”

“Fear not, Brother. The Captain employs several initiates among his ranks.” clarifies Abelas, with another deep sigh. “They will make the proper offerings and sanctify the loss of life with honor. Of that, I have no doubt.”

“What about the relic?” counters Orinth after an uncomfortable pause. “Was that recovered, at least?”

“No,” he answers, shaking his head. “The temple had been left untouched for millennia, but it was empty. Whatever other treasures, that once accompanied it, were gone as well. Likely moved, long before even the relic’s ancient mention in the great library.”

“The corrupted spirits seem to attest to that fact, as well,” he adds with a deep sigh. “They were well established.”

“How _well established_?”

“Born from at or just after the fall.”

“All of them?” balks Orinth in disbelief.

“Not all, but many of them.”

“And, Desire? Was it present?” counters the old man with an anxious expression.

Not wanting to give that fact words, Abelas simply nods morbidly.

“How did Solas handle it?”

“Not well,” he admits. “We lost him for a while. Its claws dug deep. But, he managed to recover without the need for intervention.”

“So... That is why he is in the state he’s in?” wonders Orinth. “Conflicted and weak, once again?”

“Indeed,”

“I see. Another fruitless endeavor... this time, with unavoidable harm and needless casualties,” deeply sighs Orinth. “How disappointing.”

“Quite,” Abelas nods in agreement.

“Has there been a decision as to what must come next?” the old man inquires after a few silent moments. “Any orders, left unsaid?”

“Not at the moment,” answers Abelas with a dismissive shake of the head. “At least, none that take precedent over rest and recuperation.”

“And,” he adds, turning his attention back to the woman sleeping quietly in the bed. “Perhaps, solving a mystery or two.”

“I have some thoughts on that, actually,” Orinth suddenly smiles.

“Oh?” retorts Abelas curiously. “Like what?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speculations and suspicions abound as Abelas confers with Brother Orinth in hopes of understanding just what happened to Lyra. Without much evidence to go by, besides her barely recollected story, the two try to piece together an explanation that seems plausible. Only for Abelas to find something far more sinister, unexpectedly, brewing ever so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: Chapter Live Date (11/092020) Word Count: 4800+

With a wave of his hand, Orinth motions for Abelas to join him at the desk. A faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Pulling himself from the chaise, he complies. Walking quietly across the room, with earnest curiosity. Observing the old-timer as he refocuses his attention on the piles of papers and clutter before him, and smoothes out a substantial piece of rolled parchment. Tacking down its corners with the edges of several tomes left sitting within reach.

“After our initial session to stabilize her and circumvent the infection,” Orinth begins, as Abelas settles next to him. “The Lieutenant was forthcoming with an incomplete recollection of her current circumstances. It lacked the detail you’ve provided. But with what he had been willing to relay, I began to try and come up with some explanation as to why she was in such a state. How she ended up in such a remote place. And what could have happened to her and why?”

“And now that you have clarified certain aspects and filled in the gaps of his memory, I am more certain that my preliminary speculations were more correct than not.”

“What speculations?” curiously counters Abelas.

“Allow me to break down the path of my thoughts, first,” he requests. Turning his attention to the desk before him and the fairly comprehensive map spread out on its surface. “So you will understand my rationale.”

“I’m listening,” Abelas nods.

“Now, according to the young woman’s story, she fled Antiva City just after the Qunari invaded and began to cull and convert the town,” he notes, pointing out the capital of Antiva on the map. “She next said that she and the boy took up with a trade caravan heading west, intending to eventually turn south and head to Kirkwall –via Starkhaven.”

“That’s right,” Abelas confirms.

“So, that begs the question. Doesn’t it?” the old man counters. “What route did she and the caravan take to make that destination a reality?”

“Now, normally,” he continues, trailing his finger down the coast from the city as he set the scenario in his mind. “If one wanted to travel to Ferelden from Antiva City, most would board a ship on the coast and sail the eight to ten-week trip south. To, at least, Kirkwall. Or add another couple of weeks, or so, to the trip and head straight for the Fereldan coast by bypassing the Free Marches all together.”

“But with the Qunari’s blockade of Rialto Bay, during their preliminary incursion, there was no way that option could be viable.” counters Abelas knowingly. “No ship could make it out of the harbor. Past so many Dreadnoughts.”

“Right. Which means, that in at least that part of her story, she was telling the truth. There would be no way for her and the boy to head south via a ship,” Orinth agrees. “Furthermore, to my knowledge, she has not had any affiliation with our people before you discovered her. Which eliminates the possibility of any escape with the help of our people –via the Eluvians. Meaning that her only possible option was, in fact, by land.”

“Which is what she said,” reminds Abelas.

“Yes, she did. But what route did they take?” Orinth counters.

“She didn’t specify,”

“And that’s the first thing we need to figure out,” the old man notes. “The caravan’s specific travel plans and, hopefully, when and where it all went wrong.”

“You have some ideas about that –I take it?”

“As one would expect,” Orinth smiles before focusing his attention back to the map and pointing to a road marked just west of the city. “This thoroughfare over here is the route that anyone heading west would take to flee the fighting. It is the most traveled, busy even at night, and well-patrolled by numerous soldiers at all times. Soldiers, might I remind you, that all originate from the nearly two-dozen garrison watchtowers. Set only a few miles apart from one another along the entirety of the western route. And most of the known southern routes.”

“ _Known_?” Abelas interrupts.

“Yes,” he nods, pointing as he continued to explain. “Taking the main road offers travelers two options for eventually heading south. The first is the southeastern road, which winds its way through The Weyrs and eventually forks either southeast or southwest. West takes you to Ansburg, while the eastern turn leads you across the Minanter River and eventually to Wycome.”

“Or,” he points out, indicating the second route on the map. “You can travel farther west on the main road and take the southwestern road here. Turning south, near this watchtower, and heading through this section of the Green Dales. East of us. Until it reaches the river crossing northeast of Starkhaven.”

“The western road must have been their plan,” notes Abelas with a nod. “It’s the most direct.”

“Which is what I find odd,” replies Orinth.

“Why?”

“Most take the additional travel time and opt for the eastern road this time of year. Traveling to Ansburg first, and then following the river to Starkhaven,” explains Orinth. “Rather than gambling with the unpredictability of the western road.”

“The road is perilous?”

“As most roads are, but more so, then and now,” he nods, pointing farther south along the road. “This whole area is lowlands. Wetlands and bogs, as far as the eye can see. The rains would have just started, by the time they left the city. Making the travel time precarious at best. But here specifically, the water rises quickly and lingers. Making the passage through this area nearly impossible and treacherous for even the most skilled traveler. Let alone a merchant caravan, with heavy carts and numerous refugees. Once the rains start, in earnest.”

“Make sense. But if the timing of the rains rules out taking the southwestern road, how in Mythal’s name did Lyra end up so far west?” Abelas counters. “And not just west of The Weyrs but west of even the Green Dales? Of us? I thought the mountain path was a tightly held secret.”

“It is,” nods Orinth. “But it’s not where she ended up that is the answer to this particular mystery. It is how she ended up there, in the first place, that’s the crux of this story.”

“What’s your theory?” questions Abelas. Knowing, exactly where this conversation was deliberately being led towards.

“Taking into consideration all that I have explained, I believe the caravan elected to take the road through the Green Dales. Rather than taking the eastern road.” the old man answers, getting to the point. “It is the most likely scenario, to start.”

“If the head of the caravan had years of experience in specifically taking this route, he may have been confident enough to traverse it knowing the dangers. Betting on his experience to aid him through any situation that might arise. And putting many more days between his people and any possible Qunari pursuit –if the horned zealots even dared to give chase, that is.”

“It matches the timeline she provided us,” nods Abelas in agreement. “The last memory she could recall was somewhere between nine and ten days out, from the city. Before the turn south.”

“Which confirms my suspicion,” the old man notes. “Logistically speaking, the road that cuts through the eastern side of the Green Dales is somewhere around a fortnight of travel time, out from the city. At even a careful pace. With the apparent need for haste, as they were ostensibly fleeing for their lives, the timing of the turn would coincide with her recollection.”

“If we accept that timeline as fact, and I’m assuming it is, that would mean that at some point the caravan did make the turn without complication. Which would, also, mean that whatever happened to her and the boy must have occurred sometime after that moment.”

“The Lieutenant mentioned something about her talking to the Lord, that first night,” notes Orinth. “That she had postulated that her group may have come across a band of bandits, and that might be an explanation as to what really happened. Is that true?”

“It is, though it was merely speculation,” Abelas confirms with another nod.

“It might not be,” the old man disagrees. “The farthest leg of the southwestern road is notoriously known for bandits. At least, recently.”

“ _Recently_?”

“It’s not unusual for bandits to target merchant caravans or intimate groups of travelers along the roads. As you, well, know,” answers Orinth bluntly. “But the likelihood increases exponentially when it is not being well-traveled, or patrolled, during predictable times of the year.”

“Like the western road.”

“Precisely,” the old man nods sharply. “And, even more so now.”

“The most southern section, just here,” he continues, noting a spot on the map no more than a three days’ ride from their very own sanctuary. “Is not only the most treacherous for travel because of the weather, with washouts and flooding, but also because of the numerous roaming bandit clans. Known to inhabit the area.”

“The number of incidents and attacks that occur there are normally low. Hit or miss, and somewhat rare. But, in the last several months, it has become too dangerous for even most troops and mercenary bands to pass through unscathed.”

“Why?” Abelas scowls.

“Recently, within the last year or so, a considerable-sized group of bandits mounted an incursion into the area. Sparking a war between the clans before overwhelming the majority inside a month,” informs Orinth. “Either killing them outright or forcibly absorbing them into their ranks. Until the majority of bandits fell in line under one banner.”

“Allegedly, they are led by a chieftain of sorts. A vicious human named Fulmar... Fulmar the Furious, they call him.”

“His origins are unknown but his reputation is not. He said to be cruel, simply for cruelty's sake. Sadistic and vicious, taking pride in his savagery. Fully embracing his inhumanity without even a hint of shame.”

“It is said that he finds nothing but pure joy in the act of torture. For even the simplest of offenses. Murders innocents for the sheer pleasure of it. And embraces complacency in his own brutality.”

“And,” he adds bitterly. “From what I understand, he even dabbles heavily in the Tevinter slave trade.”

“ _Slave trade_?” Abelas instantly reacts, slamming his hand on the desk in frustration. The raw emotions, that had begun to build as Orinth described such a vile existence, coming to a head in an instant. “And nothing’s been done?”

“The Lord has become increasingly aware of the current situation in the area. And, of the rumors. But, we’ve had no way of confirming if the man actually...exists. Whether the stories were true. Let alone, pinpointing his whereabouts. That whole area is nothing but an enormous swamp, thick with ancient trees and dense brush. Any incursion to ferret out where he may be hiding would have been a major undertaking. Requiring time and manpower, we really could not spare at the time.”

“But,” Orinth notes almost knowingly. “Now might be the time to do so.”

“Why? Do you believe that this Fulmar, and his men, might be the cause behind Lyra’s current state?”

“I do,” acknowledges the old man. “It’s the most plausible explanation of any other possibility...well, possible.”

“At some point,” he clarifies. “The caravan that she was traveling with must have turned south and eventually ran afoul of Fulmar’s men.”

“Somewhere around here, I should think,” Orinth continues, pointing to a bend in the southern part of the road. “Where the eastern road narrows, forcefully, due to the terrain. This whole area is dense, with numerous trees and thick brush. Practically a jungle. Offering an abundance of cover for any sizeable group looking to ambush unsuspecting travelers.”

“It was most likely a deliberate ambush,” he adds, thinking it through. “Planned for plunder, mayhem, and murder. Killing most of the men, and capturing any women and children they could.”

“The women and children?” counters Abelas, with a deep frown.

“The preferred...stock, as it were, for the trade.” the old man nods, looking uneasy. “Get a child young enough, and they won’t know the difference between freedom and forced servitude until it's too late. And, as for the women, well... I’m certain I don’t have to explain their importance. Now, do I?”

“No,” grumbled Abelas, subtle anger lacing his tone. "You do not."

For a moment, the two grow quiet. Their minds churning over that particular horror still present in this world. When it should not. When it should have never existed in the first place. Let, alone, persisted throughout all time.

“It is said,” Orinth ventured slowly, hesitant to continue. “That Fulmar has an affinity for those of Elvhen descent. As they garner more... _profit_ in Tevinter. Most notably those who have been educated. Or...possess magical ability.”

“If true, that increases the possibility even further that she and the boy were taken for that purpose,” he definitively states, getting to the point. “To be sold into slavery. Meaning that they would be taken somewhere safe until the time came to send them to the nearest slave markets.”

“Like the holding cave?” Abelas questions, suddenly feeling uneasy.

“Unlikely,” Orinth dismisses with a shake of the head. “All of our checkpoints, safe houses, and hiding places are watched very carefully and warded. There is no way Fulmar or his men could have imprisoned would-be slaves in those caves without us knowing.”

“Besides, it is far too north to be a part of his movement network. They operate much farther south.”

“Deep in the swamp, where even horses cannot travel safely.”

“No,” Orinth dismisses again. “If they were seized by Fulmar’s men, they would have been taken to an unknown stronghold. Most likely, deep in the forest. I’m certain of it.”

“Meaning that may be where Lyra has been for the four months she cannot remember?” counters Abelas. Glancing up at the man, only to note a look of uneasiness upon his face. Mirroring his own.

“And,” Orinth agrees sadly. “It just might be the reason why she can’t remember, as well.”

“What do you mean?” questions Abelas worriedly.

With a deep sigh, Orinth unexpectedly steps back from the desk and falls defeated into the chair he had vacated earlier without explanation. Looking even more disturbed than before. For a moment, he seems to quietly mull over what has been plaguing his mind over the last few days. Trying to decide if, now, was the time to bring it to light. But hesitant to even give it a voice.

“Brother,” Abelas sighs. Turning to lean his back against the edge of the desk, he levels his gaze upon one of his oldest friends. Concern lacing his tone. “What are you not telling me?”

“It is...difficult to put in words,” Orinth admits morosely. “What I fear may have happened to her.”

“But I can find no other explanation that disproves the source of what I have discovered over the last few days.”

“What did you find, Orinth?” questions Abelas hesitantly. Sensing the disturbance in his aura, that spoke of something so unsettling that he felt not only conflicted but duly concerned on a number of levels.

“When...when we were tending to her, that first night,” the old man answers slowly. “I thought I sensed something. That something was...off, about her. Her condition.”

“The damage that she had sustained and managed to live through. It was... all but impossible to truly fathom. But –.”

“ _But_?”

“More so now than I could have possibly imagined,” he admits, shaking his head. “And far more disturbing, I fear that my initial concern was not emphatic enough.”

“While you and the Lord continued to take your rest, I looked after her.” Orinth continues, his words measured and slow. “Took the time to thoroughly examine her. Her injuries, her scars, her trauma. And, the more I looked, the more I uncovered something far more sinister than I could have possibly foreseen.”

“There is...evidence. Remnants of previous traumas inflicted in multiplicity,” he explains. “Sustained, repeatedly, over an innumerable amount of time.”

“Are you...?” asks Abelas hesitantly. His heart suddenly dropping at the very thought. “Are you saying, she was tortured?”

“I can find no other explanation for the remnants of injuries that still linger in her form,” nods the old man. “The amount of internal scarring is almost unimaginable and too apparent to ignore.”

“Most of the bones in her body, apart from her head and spine, have been broken numerous times. With great force.”

“Her right hand, for instance, has been crushed on several occasions. Each of the bones within, carry more than a dozen healing scars. As if they have been meticulously broken, forcibly healed by an amateur healer, and then broken once more. Repeated, seemingly, for the sheer pleasure of it.”

“Wrists, arms, legs, ribs, jaw... They all exhibit signs of multiple breaks.” he sighs profoundly. “And her internal organs emulate them in many ways. Most of them plagued with masses of scar tissue. Unjustifiable for any other reason, besides deliberate and sustained torture.”

“Could you be mistaken?” Abelas counters. Trying to dismiss the man’s fears but failing to believe otherwise.

“I’m afraid not,” Orinth heavily sighs. “There can be no other explanation for what I’ve found.”

“Magic, even performed by those barely trained, leaves traces that linger in perpetuity. Any healer worth their salt, with enough experience to recognize it, would see what has been done to her. Almost instantly.”

“And, especially, if they were deliberately looking for it.”

“I never noticed...” Abelas sighs profoundly. Suddenly feeling as if he had failed her somehow.

“I wouldn’t expect you would,” Orinth answers. “Considering the desperation of the moment. Most healers would not have been focused on attempting such a deep investigation in the face of such overwhelming damage. The priority, as it rightfully should have been, was to save her life.”

“But,” he adds carefully. “For Lord Fen’Harel..."

“As sensitive as he is to the Fade, and the spark of life, it would have been impossible for him not to notice her condition.”

“Even if he disregarded it, preferring to deal with the current danger instead, he would have been aware of her underlying traumas instantly. The moment he released his first healing spell, the recognition would have been there. The opposing magical recoil would have been too unpleasant for him not to notice. Too painful.”

_Recoil..._

At the mention of that word, Abelas memory instantly flashes back to the moment they’d discovered her. Dangling on the precipice of death upon the makeshift gallows left for no one to find. How Solas had tried to ascertain her condition. And how he had jerked his hand back in obvious pain the moment his first spell sank into her form.

“In that...I fear, you may be right, brother,” Abelas sighs heavily. “He reacted in such a manner, at the beginning. When we found her.”

“Which means he chose to save her, despite the implications behind that fact,” agrees Orinth with a nod. “Which begs the question as to why? Why would he accept such an undertaking, during such a critical time? What was it about her that sparked his curiosity so? And what did he expect to find by extending her the care he would not, normally, grant to most?”

“I don’t know,” Abelas replies, shaking his head. “But he was adamant, that we aid her.”

“Could they be acquainted somehow?” counters the old man. “Perhaps associated with one another before he came to us?”

“Unlikely,” he replies. “He’s showed no apparent recognition of her. Only curiosity. Not even a tremble of knowing in his aura. That would betray such a secret, held close.”

“No,” Abelas answers again, shaking his head. “I am certain there is some other reason behind his decision to intervene. To bring her here. Rather than some conspiracy, purposefully kept from us.”

“Then,” sighs Orinth in understanding. “For the time being, at least, I would suggest we push back any feelings of uncertainty and give him the benefit of the doubt. We’ve both known, for millenniums, how... _fickle_ , he can be. How prone he is to decisions that offer no apparent explanation from the fore. So, it would not serve our great purpose well to suspect something untoward in his current actions. At least, not without evidence.”

“I agree,” nods Abelas. “Besides, the decision to lend her aid may have been based on pure impulsivity. Done without thought, reacting merely from a place of emotion. Perhaps pity or empathy. Or, both.”

“As unfeeling as most believe him to be,” agrees Orinth. “No one knows his heart better than himself.”

“He does not express empathy easily. Restrains pity consciously. Offers sympathy rarely. Clinging to the belief that they will make him weak when only strength and determination is deemed necessary. But, even the Dread Wolf, cannot remain unfeeling when forced to witness the tragedy he’s left behind.”

“No matter how hard he tries to deny the possibility of reoccurrence,” the old man adds with a deep sigh. “His reaction was inevitable.”

“Agreed.”

“But,” Orinth interjects, leveling a pointed and knowing look at their Commander. “The same can equally be believed of you, brother.”

“I know,” he admits without protestation, turning his head slightly and looking at Lyra sleeping soundly.

“Does that thought frighten you? To know you’ve allowed yourself to be swept up in her circumstance? Willingly? Knowing it will, most likely, not end well?”

“No,” answers Abelas. “It would not be the first time I’ve had to play the part of the Wolf’s conscience -since this all began. Forced to stand in as his moral center and act accordingly.”

“And if circumstances demand action against her?” counters Orinth. “In the end? Will you?”

“If it comes to that, yes.” Abelas nods. “I will do what must be done.”

“Even if doing so would go against your deepest principles and impugn your honor? Even if you –.”

“Even then,” interrupts Abelas, sighing profoundly. “My promise must always be kept.”

“Well,” deflates the old man. “Let us hope it will not come to that.”

“Let’s hope,”

The room falls silent after his admittance. Allowing Abelas to slip into his own thoughts for a time and confront the possibilities that may come to pass.

Once upon a time, he had existed in their world as nothing more than as a man who was destined to serve. Forced to abide by the command of another, to act as they had wished, whether he agreed or not. Allowed only adherence to his oath, following the will of his _betters_ , he had no choice but to ignore any feelings or thoughts he may have discreetly held. And all because that was what _had_ to be done.

But, now, he no longer had such strict restriction. A gift freely given by Pride, he was now free to live his life as he wished.

Knowing that, in many ways, he would be expected to serve as he’d once done. Yet, accepting his new path with much more optimism than before. He was granted the opportunity to make a difference. To aid his people. To bring them the lives and the world, they were always meant to have. And not by submitting to the will of others, but by a choice of his own making.

Solas had made his intentions known from the very beginning. Stating, without caveat, that Abelas would equal his authority in every way. A member of his inner circle. His advisor. His Commander. His truest and most trusted friend. His partner in all things. As he was inevitably meant to be. But, now, even more so. Without restriction, without argument, without dismissive belief. He had not only earned Pride’s respect but the rarest thing of all: the wolf’s trust.

And he would not violate it. No matter how difficult his existence would become. No matter how his soul may protest. No matter how he would suffer because of it.

He _will_ keep his word.

Even if it meant his adherence would demand a price to be paid. Even if it meant that the one to pay that price would be her.

“Brother?” ventures Orinth after a few quiet moments, drawing Abelas attention back to him.

“Yes?”

“How would you like to handle this?” questions the old man. “What are your orders?”

“I haven’t fully decided. What would you recommend?”

“Well,” answers Orinth with a contemplative look. “Considering what we already know, and what we’ve speculated, I would suggest we act based on our assumptions for now.”

“Ultimately, we will require the Lord’s permission to undertake any official action. But that does not mean we can’t do some leg work in the interim.”

“Such as?” counters Abelas, genuinely curious about his friend’s thoughts.

“An investigation is necessary, any way you look at it,” Orinth continues. “To confirm, not only her story but also what we believe may have happened, it may be prudent to take an active role. I would suggest sending out a scouting party to search for any evidence of an attack along the road through the Green Dales. That may coincide with the timeline we’ve been given. Starting at the turn south and working their way down to the river. Focusing on both any physical signs and any rumors that may exist.”

“Doing so should provide some indication to us as to whether or not the inciting incident was, in fact, a bandit attack. And, perhaps, even give us a path that can be followed and provide us with some of the details currently missing.”

“I would also suggest,” he adds. “That we send a message to Captain Yevras and assign him the task of retracing your steps from the temple. With instructions to find the location where you came across the young woman and thoroughly investigate the area for any clues as to how she ended up there.”

“We still have active agents in Antiva City, yes?” counters Abelas, only to see the old man nod at him in confirmation. “Then, we should reach out to them as well. To confirm her origins, as best we can.”

“You wish to start before the beginning?”

“I do,” nods Abelas. “We know so little about her, it would be unwise not to find out all we can.”

“Is there anything particular you wish them to focus on?”

“Any affiliations she may have, known associations, and any interactions of note.” Abelas clarifies. “Done either publically or privately, that may suggest a threat to our operations here. Her political leanings or any financial dealings that could be a cause of concern should also be looked into. Along with any inclinations or indication that she may be empathetic or in opposition to our mission, as a whole.”

“We need to know, whether or not she can be trusted. Or if she should be handled with the utmost suspicion and kept under heavy guard.”

“Do you expect the former or the latter?” Orinth counters, trying to gauge the Commander’s thoughts.

“Personally,” he admits. “The former. I sense no falsehoods, no intent to be subversive, within her.”

“But I cannot ignore the possibility that my preliminary impressions of her may be wrong. The Inquisition has tried, using varying avenues, to infiltrate our operations many times. I would not put it past the Inquisitor to concoct such an elaborate hoax. Using the Lord’s innate curiosity, and her intimate knowledge of his empathetic nature, against him. All in an attempt to undermine our confidence and garner a foothold for information to aid her cause.”

“Very well,” Orinth agrees, standing from his chair. “Then I shall disseminate the orders as they presently stand. And go from there.”

“If anything is found,” Abelas warns gently. Watching the man walk towards the door. “I _do_ wish to be the first to be informed. No matter how insignificant the information may seem.”

“Of course, Commander,” Orinth replies. Falling back into a more official tone as he stops at the door, turns back to his friend, and bows respectfully. “Shall I send for Saven before I take my leave? Or do you intend to take up the watch, yourself?”

“I have a promise to keep.” notes Abelas, specifying nothing.

“As you wish, Commander. Then I shall see you later.”

Abelas offers Orinth another nod and silently dismisses him with a wave of his hand. As the door closes behind the old man, he can do no more but try and take a moment to breathe calmly. Trying to settle his thoughts and his concerns for the moment. All in hopes of being able to remain focused on what needed to be done, in the here and now. Rather than speculating on what may come to pass in the days to come. For they were certain to be difficult. If not, more so, than any that may have come before.

And, all, because of a mysterious woman. Who could barely remember her own life yet could speak a language long-since dead. Dead to all but those who were born into a life ruled by would-be gods.

“Who are you?” he breathes out, in bewilderment, as he turns to look at Lyra once more. “Really?”


	7. Chapter 7*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haunted by the pain he can not bring himself to speak of, Solas seeks his recovery in the land of dreams. Searching for answers to pressing questions and reports from his agents. While, all the while, a malevolent and familiar presence stalks his every footstep. All in hopes that for even the slightest of moments, he becomes unguarded enough for it to slip through his normally well-fortified defenses and take what its nature truly demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW, due to the nature of Desire demons.  
> Trigger warning: Implied sexual assault (past tense). 
> 
> Author Notes: Chapter Live Date (12/12/2020) Word Count: 5200+

The dreams were getting worse.

His agency failing more and more as time went by.

When Desire ventured to find him.

To torture him.

Ever since their encounter at the Temple of Falon’din, the determined creature had stalked him. Waiting, almost patiently, for his eyes to close. For dreams to take him to the land of the Fade. The domain, once his. Now, influenced by a pain that would never heal. That could never heal.

The desire that would never truly leave him.

It twisted what should have been his promised land. A place where he was truly free. To think, feel, and act as he was born to do. To live as he had once done. But now there was only darkness. And pain. Memories, corrupted by regret. Taunting and tormenting him with all that he had lost, had thrown away. For an oath that could not be abandoned. A promise that must be kept. No matter how much it took from him. No matter how much it haunted him.

It wore her face. That smile under deep green eyes and long dark lashes. Regarding him from the shadowed boughs of ancient trees swaying in a gentle breeze. As long slender fingers ran through luscious raven locks.

An imitation, it was. A mimick, mirroring the innocent. The way his heart showed her love, in subtlety. When discretion was needed. When she thought no one was looking. That no one would notice. A flash of affection offered honestly. Without realization. But truer than any truth her lips could ever speak.

That was what he loved about her.

She was real.

Open.

Honest.

And devoted.

Even when she shouldn’t be.

And all the more when it would do nothing, but wound her further.

But she would never concede. Never capitulate. Accept the path that he had set her on. For she was just as determined as he. She would liberate him. From himself. Despite all reason not to.

A part of him, the smallest of parts, wished she could. Dreamed of a moment when she would stand before him and offer him a path that would save them both. Relieve him of the burdens he had to bear and gift him with the future he secretly wanted most.

But such dreams were futile. So long as the People suffered. So long as the world remained severed. Lost in the unexpected darkness, created by his own hands. Oh, so long ago.

It’s presence lingered silently, as Solas focused his attention on the land of dreams once more. Ignoring the darkness that surrounded it, in hopes of exploration. To obtain the knowledge, he sought. The truth he had yet to discover.

Expanding his thoughts outward, he pulled on the infinite memory of the Fade. Reaching out to the dreams that surrounded him and did not. All in hopes of finding the one mind that might bear him understanding. A slip of man living in shadows. The wayward son who offered both counsel and understanding. In times of curiosity.

“My Lord,” a gentle voice answers. “It has been some time.”

“It has,” Solas acknowledges gently as a slender elf appeared before him. “Feynriel.”

“Have you been well?”

“Yes, milord,” the young man answers, offering an affirming nod and an honoring bow. “The tensions grow, but my patron is resolute. I should not encounter any difficulty for some time.”

“What have you uncovered?” counters Solas.

“Rumors abound, milord,” Feynriel answers respectfully. “Inquisition forces have been seen in the Silent Plains. Near the village of Solas.”

“ _Solas_?” the Lord answers.

“Yes, milord.” nods the slender elf. “But for what purpose, I am uncertain.”

“The Magisterium is perplexed. And suspicious. But her ally within their ranks defers. Speaking of only the reformation. Explaining nothing and offering even less.”

“I have disseminated orders for further investigation,” he informs. “But my agents have yet to expose anything of importance that justifies their presence.”

“I see,” sighs Solas in disappointment. He had hoped that Feynriel had found more. “And what of their Mistress? Their leader?”

“No sign,” Feynriel responds. “As of yet. The contingent stationed on the sands is led by a man I do not recognize.”

“A man?” counters Solas.

“An Ancient,” he replies reluctantly. “Bearing the mark of Dirthamen.”

“Impossible!” Solas barks. His reaction, instantaneous. “I routed that temple myself. The last of his Sentinels are dead.”

“I’m afraid not, milord,” sighs Feynriel regretfully, lowering his eyes suspiciously.

Even in his surprise and disbelief, Solas does not miss the young man’s latent reaction. The hesitation in his mind.

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes, milord,” he sighs. “The Sentinel is not the only Ancient among her people here.”

“How many?” Solas immediately demands.

“At least a dozen, maybe more,” Feynriel replies. “Born of Dirthamen and...”

“ _And_?”

“Falon’din, milord,” he sighs.

The _Friend of the Dead_ and the _God of Secrets_.

“For what purpose?” Solas counters, looking up at the young man. “Why would their forces ally themselves with her? They owe her nothing.”

“I do not know, milord,” sighs Feynriel. “But an alliance has been struck. Of that, I am certain.”

Perplexed by such a development, Solas reaches up and absentmindedly massages his temple. As his mind churns over the news. He had known the Inquisition had gotten wind of his attempts to secure the remaining hidden temples of old and those that still slept. Some time ago. But he had never thought that she would adopt his own strategy. Usurp his intentions. In counter to his endeavors. And covet those left behind for her own purpose.

“Find out,” Solas ultimately orders. Deciding, above all other assignments given to Feynriel, that he must know their intentions. “Send a contingent of agents to infiltrate their camp. If at all possible.”

“And if not?” counters the young man.

“Then reconnaissance. We must learn of their purpose and what they intend.”

“As you wish,” nods Feynriel.

“As for Pavus,” Solas adds. “Maintain intimate contact. The man is shrewd and intelligent. But prone to boasting when the mood strikes. Be there when it does.”

“It will be done, milord,” bows the young man. Disappearing from the Fade at his acceptance of his orders.

“ _He will fail_ ,” whispers Desire, the moment the last remnants of the youthful dreamer vanish. In a flash the Fade shifts. Banishing the silent forest, born of memories, to another best left forgotten. Ancient stone walls ascend into the heavens. Upon them, banners of green and gold. Born of flax and stolen thoughts. In the heraldry of a home, left abandoned. Under the snows of a pain that would never dissipate upon warm spring winds. “ _As will you_.”

“You know nothing,” dismisses Solas, focusing his attention on the memory growing around him. The cold stone warming his feet, where many had once tread. The rumble of burning logs within a hearth, once guarded by a guarded heart. And the smell of wild lilies scenting the air faintly, whispering of a presence he had not felt in years.

“ _We need not know_ ,” Desire breathes out, its voice full of a promise not wanted. “ _To see_.”

“You see what your nature compels you to see,” Solas counters, as his eyes finally land on a gilded vacant throne upon an abandoned dais. Latent breaths of the warming sun, casting it under a gentle glow from the ornate window lingering behind, making itself known in silent understanding. “And nothing more.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Desire counters, its voice mirroring understanding. “ _We still see_.”

“ _The pain you carry_.”

“And it is mine,” he argues. “Mine and mine alone,”

“ _Not alone_ ,” the creature counters. Pulling forth its influence with a wave of its unseen hand. The memory shifts. Emptied space fills with life formerly enjoyed. The voices of companions, of friends, set aside for a purpose. For a duty, he could not allow them to share. Only to burden them with another. And of a heart, he could never forget. “ _Forever shared_.”

Bare-faced, she forces a smile he would recognize even in the dark. As her friends, the family that fate had gifted her, lounge around her in guarded merriment. A game of cards, held not in the jovial tavern as they had once done. But in the quietness of a great hall that had seen better days. Masking the dread, the pain they carried, poorly. Excused and drowned by drink and a determination to forget. If only for a while. The cruelty such a life had offered them.

The pain that still lingered.

Because of him.

Stillness follows as he centers his attention. Eyes and heart, drawn to the woman that often haunted his dreams. Reminding him of a future he had denied himself.

She is as beautiful as she had once been to him. Raven hair, washing unbound down her frame like falling waters. Pale skin, soft and so often willing. Pink lips whispering promises she was always willing to keep. And eyes as deep as the most ancient of forgotten forests. Seeing without seeing all that existed before her and did not.

An indomitable spirit. An unfailing heart. The rarest of all things. Possibly believed or imagined.

And, for the briefest of times, his.

Shaking his head, Solas closes his eyes and tries to will the image away. Trying to banish the reminders the sight of her often conjured. Beckoning him to reconsider all that he had forced himself to choose. All for an easier path. Full of love. Of understanding and a warmth that he had never deserved. Or had rightfully earned.

The future she had promised him. If only he would lay down his burdens.

“ _You struggle_ ,” Desire whispers, “ _When you need not_.”

“ _The path you long to take_...”

“Can no longer be taken,” Solas interrupts, pulling his attention away in search of the creature. Allowing his eyes to sweep across his surroundings. Yet, finding nothing. Nothing but the memories that linger for its purpose.

“ _You say that_ ,” it answers, suddenly sounding so close. Snatching his attention back to his heart. Only to find her no longer sitting among her compatriots, forcing the facade of contentment, but standing before him.

“ _But you’re wrong_ ,” she smiles softly.

For a moment, just a moment, he is lost in her eyes. Those beautiful eyes that watched him with such love. From the beginning. Calling to him with every glance. Begging him to show her the same.

“No,” he forcefully answers. Sensing the danger and stepping back. “I will not fall for your tricks again.”

“ _Tricks_?” his beloved answers. Tilting her head just slightly. As she had always done when curiosity invariably struck. “ _What tricks, my love_?”

“ _Are you alright, Solas_?” she questions further. Taking a step closer and reaching to touch his face. Her face full of concern.“ _You look...frightened_.”

“No,” he counters again. His voice suddenly shaking as a flash of panic hits him and he steps back once more. “Do not touch me.”

“ _Why, ma Vhenan_?” she answers. Suddenly looking hurt. “ _Did I do something wrong_?”

“No...” he breathes out. “You could never.”

“ _Then why do you withdraw_?” she questions, stepping closer. “ _Why do you flee_?”

“Because you are not her!” Solas argues bitterly. Trying to reinforce the truth of it with conviction, and stepping back again.

“ _Why do you say such things, my love_?” she counters sadly. Advancing toward him once more. Her hand still extended in an offering of comfort. 

“Damn you!” he counters, stepping back again. “Stop this!”

Suddenly a wall of stone, resolute and unmoving, appears at his back. Forcibly halting any retreat he may wish with a wave of unknown magic. So intense that he finds he cannot move. Inexplicable trapped and immobile. Between it and the reminder. Silently demanding that he remain. To face both his past and future, without hesitation.

And the pain he had tried to shut out for years.

“ _Do you not love me anymore_?”

Solas’ eyes water, involuntarily, at the thought. His heart clenching at the pain in her voice. The despair desperately lacing every syllable. And the longing in her eyes. Begging him to fear not.

“I will always love you,”

“ _How can I believe you_?” she answers. “ _When you have forgotten me_?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing!” he shouts.

“ _Then why will you not let me touch you, Vhenan_?” she questions. Taking one last step and reaching for him again. “ _When my heart aches for you so_?”

“Please,” Solas suddenly begs. The pain in her eyes, in her voice, desperately suffocating his resolve. Far faster than ever before. As his eyes instantly widen in terror. “Don’t do this.”

“ _I have to_ ,” she finally answers.

The moment her gentle hand touches his face, the despair and heartache he had tried to keep buried suddenly invades his mind. Like doors flung open in desperation, the pain comes to him. Striking hard and true, through the center of him. Eviscerating all resolve in one single instant. And opening the flood gates the inevitable deluge. Flooding all conscious thought with memories of their past.

The good times and the bad. To the moments of temptation, when he nearly gave in. Willing to abandon it all, for her. And then to the darkness that eventually followed. The moments when he pulled back. The moment his face fell, in understanding, of what had to be done. The onslaught of unknowing tears. And the terrible guilt that followed. That would haunt his steps for the rest of his days.

A tragedy of his own doing. Only to be outdone by another tragedy, he could not keep her from years later. Suddenly piling upon him like a bitter avalanche. Blotting out all light, all warmth. Leaving nothing but the bitterness of loneliness and unending solitude in its wake.

No path to take. No way to make it right. No future worth wishing for. Waiting for. For it would never be there, could never be there. Not for him.

“ _It could be_ ,” she whispers. Her words cutting through the despair threatening to consume him. “ _You could have it all my love_...”

“ _If you simply_ ,” she breathes out. Her enchanting voice almost moaning her words as she leans close. “ _Let me in_.”

Alarm bells ring in his mind instantly. But a flash of magic suddenly tamps them down. The creature’s influence flaring exponentially, while its gentle touch lingers. Forcing its will upon him, with a strength and intensity to rival even the greatest of gods. Sapping his will, his determination to deny its purpose. Threatening to overwhelm him as it had done so many times before. As it demands his submission, and acceptance of all that it cruelly commands.

In a matter of moments, weakness fills his form. Dragging his mind into the unknown oblivion of his deep anguish. Summoning forth, with true cruelty, the desperation he had always tried to keep at a bay. His secret desire to concede. To surrender. To relinquish this life to the devastation, he had caused. To pay the price he had ignored. And accept the punishment he truly deserved.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathes out. Her voice laced with a sense of satisfaction so wanton that Solas can feel it sink into his very bones. Numbing his mind. Calling him to complacency. “ _That’s it, my love_.”

“ _You no longer need to fight_.” she moans softly, leaning close. “ _The world is well. The people are free. You are free_.”

“ _The life you desire is yours_.” she offers as she grazes her lips against his. “ _I am yours_.”

“Mine?” Solas weakly answers. His mind: so lost in her words that all he can see, feel, and know, is the world she paints. 

“ _Now_ ,” she sighs in satisfaction, pressing her lithe and vivacious form against him. “ _And forever, my love_.”

Sensual lips, delicate and deftly determined, press against his and his mind instantly blurs. All reasoning dissipates, fluttering away like startled ravens into the night sky. Leaving nothing but the dearest comfort offered wantonly and willingly.

Giving in, the need to, subtly calls to him. Imploring him to live the life, _she_ meant for him. His walls once erected to preserve the very center of all he was, should have always been, immediately begins to crumble. Falling away, brick by brick. Piece by piece. As the creature’s intent invades his mind even more, with gentle force. Showing him the life that had been denied. Of _her_. And a life of unspoken peace and love. Of a family, forever denied to him, waiting patiently. Pleading to be claimed, once and for all.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathes out, ghosting her lips across his once more as she broke the kiss and hummed approvingly. “ _Claim it all, my love_.”

“ _Happiness..._ ” she moans, drawing her hand slowly down his frame. Caressing his suddenly bare chest as she seductively peppers kisses along his jaw. “ _Your happiness is right before you._ ”

_“Wishing, wanting, waiting, for you,_ ” her voice whispers in his ear. _“And only you_.”

Stoking the fire, her touch is scorching. Words, full of promise, fueling the flames of his want and need, offer a comfort never before believe to be possible. The love that had been denied by purpose. Forever unconditional. Unchanging, and unflinching, begging to him to join in revelry and resolution. Waiting for him, only for him, in the haze of acceptance. In capitulation and surrender. To his deepest, most coveted, desires. A resplendent existence of blissful ignorance, solely for them to share. Forever liberated from the cruelty that adamantly demanded possession of his heart. For so very long.

“ _You merely need to say the words._ ” her touch promises. Declares, without exception. As her hand slowly moves lower and lower. Teasing his mind as much as his want, ever suffocated and begging to be free of its chains. _“Accept your destiny. And you shall possess it all. Everything you’ve desired, yet have been denied for so very long. Can be yours once more.”_

_“Love, peace, bliss,_ ” she vows wantonly. Her hand Sliding. Shifting. Slipping. Down. Down. Down. More and more. Towards the promise, she is so willing to make. The feeling of completeness and release that he yearns for, has always yearned for because of her. His beloved, his heart. His everything. Calling to him beyond the pain, the despair, the fear, and the loneliness. Pleading. Promising. Proclaiming. Salvation and seduction, solely his.

“ _And,”_ she moans as her deft, slender fingers slither beneath stitch and hem. Reaching, forever reaching, for the lustful thoughts hiding just beyond its horizon. “ _My touch once more_.”

A moan, unrestrained and unhindered, escapes his lips as form meets function. Caresses, born of his desire and hers, coaxing his most animalistic instincts to the fore. Demanding. Pleading. Needing. An inevitability. Rushing through his blood. Untethered by restraint or reluctance. Declaring, with finality, the truth he had ignored. The relief and release left refrained. Refused and withheld. For nothing.

“ _Say it, my love,_ ” she salaciously pleads. Her hands and lips stroking the strings of his desire into a melody of absolute pleasure. Unable to be ignored. _“And all of it can finally be yours_. _I can finally be yours._ _For all eternity_.”

“I-I...want...” his voice stutters softly. Chest heaving as a moan escapes his lips once more. His weakness and her words: insurmountable. Impossible, yet impassible. Deigning acceptance and submission. Placating to facts. Inevitability, no longer pushed aside by pride. And wanted.

“ _Yes..._ ” she smiles slyly, his capitulation assured. “ _My love?”_

“I... a–”

Suddenly, seemingly out of conscious thought and reality, his words are instantly interrupted by a sparking flash of magic upon the distance dais. Manifesting before its abandoned throne, it blinks into existence for only a second before an ethereal effeminate voice born from beyond the veil of existence echoes. Desperate and demanding.

“ _Pride!_ ”

Instantly, the searing pain of flesh made afire screams through him. As a white-hot molten malevolence, both vicious and violent, tears across his consciousness and punches through his chest with savage intent. Summoning a roaring howl of inconceivable and excruciating pain from his throat before knowing thought can find purchase. And overwhelming him without hesitation or explanation.

In that very instant, consumed by immutable devastation and desecration, something reaches for him. Adamant with purpose. Determined and desperate. From the deep and dark, it envelops him in the endlessness of the unknown. Coiling around his form, demanding acquiescence and proclaiming contrition. Until his entire world falls into the darkness of another’s making.

His incessant scream immediately echoes all around him. When reality entreats into the fore as a second later and he suddenly shoots up in bed. Filled with panic as consciousness becomes a rush of jumbled emotions and memories, of feelings both known and unknown, fear invades his senses. The unbelievable and impossible proclaiming existence in perpetuity. Demanding it to be so. Until all he can see, hear, think, and feel is the crushing dominance of beliefs once left behind.

“Solas,” a gentle voice breathes out as a hand falls upon his shoulder.

His name given voice instantly cuts Solas to the quick. Bringing to the fore the stark contrast of the waking in a heartbeat. Summoning his attention in a flash of somber realism and truth. Sweeping away the overwhelming consumption of the inherent cruelty, born from somewhere unknown. He immediately looks up, and into the anxious face of a dear friend leaning close. Emanating both a concern and care, he’d never rightfully deserved.

“Apologies, Milord,” Orinth sighs gently. “But...intervention was needed.”

In the haze of confusion still lingering around the edges of conscious thought, he finds himself perplexed by the old man’s words. But when Orinth quietly straightens, steps back, and returns to the rickety wooden chair he had abandoned for Solas’ sake the realization hits him. And more pointedly so, when the man answers his look of confusion with nothing more than a gentle frown. And drops the metal rod in his hand –its tip molten– into an unseen bucket of water by his side and the hiss of extinguishment echoes all around them.

Solas’ eyes instinctively fall to his chest. To the newest burn scar now lingering there, among all the others, and immediately sighs –in disappointment.

“Thank you, Falon,” he breathes out reservedly, as he acceptingly reaches up and brushes a gentle cooling spell across his most recent acquisition. Dulling the pain that lingered there.

Humming in acknowledgment, the old man settles more comfortably in his chair and simply levels a knowing look.

“Desire?” Orinth questions, sounding disappointed.

The question immediately prompts Solas to glance at the old man and then to himself. Bringing to his attention the obviousness of his disheveled state. And the physical manifestation of the creature’s influence in the waking.

“Mmm,” he hums in confirmation as he tugs the blanket draped over him up a little more. To hide his shame.

“How close?” Orinth counters.

“Nearly beyond saving,” Solas sighs defeatedly, after a barely significant pause. “If you had not intervened...”

“I see,” he sighs. “What form did it take?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Solas instantly counters, slightly frustrated that the man would entertain such a question. Knowing he knew the answer already.

“Your obsession with her is going to get you killed,” Orinth states bluntly. “The more you hold on to her memory, the more it will destroy what resolve within you remains.”

“I don’t need a lecture, Orinth,” Solas practically growls.

“Yes, you do,” he counters. “More so, now, than ever before.”

“Your lingering feelings for that woman are the reason why Desire has latched onto you. Why it always latches onto you. Your pain is like a beacon to all malevolent spirits. But no more so than to Desire, when that pain is fresh and born from mourning the loss of love. And the longing that inevitably follows.”

“You need to let her go.”

“I can’t do that,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

“Then you condemn yourself to not only the eternal suffering of loss but to the role of prey, constantly pursued. So long as you refuse to repudiate the feelings you still cling to, your destruction will follow you everywhere you go. As will Desire.”

“I know,” sighs Solas.

“Well then,” Orinth warns. “If you are still insistent on continuing this course of foolish action, might I suggest you take a more active role in protecting yourself for the foreseeable future? I cannot, nor will not, always be here to pull you back from the brink of the destruction you toy with. And neither will Abelas.”

“It caught me unprepared,” Solas admits. “Waited until my mind was distracted with Feynriel’s report, then ambushed me before I could raise and temper my defenses.”

“Opportunistic little thing, Desire is,” retorts Orinth in slight disgust. “It never hesitates. But is not beyond itself to lie in wait. Like a viper waiting to strike.”

“And it did,” Solas agrees. “With the deadliness of an experienced predator. There is no telling how many wayward souls it has trapped in its clutches over the millennia. But it’s mastery is clear as crystal. ”

“Then, it's true? Born before the fall?”

“Mmm,” hums Solas in confirmation. “Most likely twisted by the creation of the Veil itself.”

“A dangerous adversary, then,” Orinth nods. “You must proceed with caution, Milord, and be diligent in your endeavors. So as not to weaken yourself to the point of exhaustion, again. One more slip up, and it could truly be fatal.”

“I’m aware,” he nods, before shifting the subject entirely. “How long was I gone?”

“Nine days,” the old man answers with a sigh.

“And Abelas?” Solas questions, brushing his hand down his face. Trying to chase away the last of the cobwebs lingering in his mind.

“Awoke after a couple of days,” he notes. “And returned to his duty as soon as he was able.”

“Has there been any developments I should be aware of?”.

“Quite a few,” admits Orinth with a nod.

“Including...” he adds. “A few developments with our new guest.”

“Developments?” repeats Solas, concern lacing his tone as he reaches for the hem of his blankets and pulls them away from him. “What sort of developments?”

“Is she–?”

“Be at ease, Milord,” the old man placates with a dismissive little wave. “There is no urgency here. She is recovering nicely.”

“Is recovering? Still? Has she not returned to consciousness yet?”

“Not yet,” informs Orinth.

“And yet you insist that all is well?” counters Solas in irritation, moving to the edge of his bed and placing his feet upon the cold stone beneath him. “It’s been nine days, Orinth.”

“And... she is still recovering,” he confirms. “And rightly so. After what that child has been through, she has more than earned as much rest as she may desire.”

“But,” he interjects knowingly. “I don’t really need to tell you that, now, do I?”

“What are you talking about?” counters Solas.

“Do not try to deflect, Milord,” warns Orinth, his eyes narrowing at Solas. “You know that does not work with me.”

“You,” Solas begins to protest, only to immediately capitulate with a deep sigh. “What do you know?”

“The same as you. Or should I say, the same as you have known since the moment you found her?” he replies. “The healing was unmistakable.”

“As was the touch of your magic,” he adds knowingly, leveling an accusatory look at his Lord. “And done in secret, no less.”

“I had no choice,” admits Solas with a deep sigh. “The damage was the most acute. The cruelty pressed upon her, simply because she is a woman, had caused a rupture. She was bleeding out, internally, and at death’s door. Had I not interceded, she would have never made it to the holding cave. Let, alone, live to see another day.”

“But why keep it secret? Even from me? When you charged me to save her?”

“I...thought it best to keep it from becoming common knowledge,” Solas admits, having offered Lyra a sliver of compassion and understanding in such an act. “Her state during lucidity, for the most part, was calm. Bereft of any memories that could be reflected upon, let alone recalled to detrimental effect. She showed no signs of any mental instability brought on by what I had discovered. So, I kept it to myself. So as to not force her to face the trauma, when she clearly was not ready, or add to it.”

“How... considerate of you,” Orinth notes, a slight hint of suspicion in his voice. “But why keep it from Abelas? Was he not by your side when you treated her? Assisting you? Sacrificing his own strength, to aide her?”

“You know how sensitive the Commander can be, especially when it comes to such atrocities. Such knowledge would have only been a distraction. A detriment to his concentration and, ultimately, to her care.”

“So you took it upon yourself to heal her wounds... while on the move?” counters Orinth in disbelief. “On horseback?”

“Again, I had no choice,” nods Solas. “There was a possibility that we were still being pursued. Any stop until we’d reached the holding cave would have put us in danger. I had already risked our safety by choosing to collect her and bring her with us. Any more delay and we could have easily been overtaken.”

“And just why, exactly, did you decide to intervene on the girl’s behalf?” Orinth counters. “Knowing the risk?”

“I...” Solas hesitates. “I don’t know.”

“There was just something about her. Something that I can neither explain nor express, that called to me. Implored me not to turn from her. Not to abandon her and allow death to claim another wayward soul. Left...lost, and all because of me.”

“And I couldn’t do it,” he admits. “I couldn’t just leave her there. Not like that.”

“So you allowed your regret to set your path once again?” Orinth sighs in disappointment. “And ignored the fact that the last time you gave in to the whims of your compassion, you marked yourself a target for Desire’s neverending intent.”

“I ignored nothing,” Solas snaps.

“So you claim, Milord,” bites back Orinth. “But did you genuinely think about your choice? The reality of what you were willingly accepting?”

“You know nothing of this girl’s origins. Or of her intentions. She could have been a spy sent to gain your sympathy. All in hopes of getting close, so as to stick a dagger in your back the moment the opportunity presents itself.”

“She is no assassin,” Solas instantly dismisses. “Of that, I am certain.”

“Certain?” the old man scoffs. “And just how can you be so certain?”

“Because her wounds were not self-inflicted, Orinth!” Solas bluntly states, his voice suddenly stern and foreboding. “No adversary, no matter how desperate, would go so far as to violate one of their own. Simply to add authenticity to such a ruse. No one!”

“And especially not the Inquisitor,” Orinth answers, adding the words that he knew Solas could not bring himself to speak. “You mean.”

“No,” Solas breathes out, slightly defeated. “She would never.”

“Very well,” the old man finally gives in. “If you are certain that she can be trusted, I will do my best to see to it that she becomes an asset worthy of your compassion.”

“She is no asset,” counters Solas, definitively. “I have no intentions of keeping her here beyond what is necessary. Once she has completely recovered, I fully expect her to take her leave of our hospitality and be on her way.”

“And if she chooses to stay instead? Or can't be allowed to leave? What then?”

“I'll deal with it,”


End file.
